Insurrection: Renegade [02]

by Robyn Young

  ‘Punished?’ The old lord turned to him. ‘Fosterage isn’t a punishment, Robert. It is the time-honoured custom of your kin. The sons of your mother’s family would all have taken this rite of passage over the years. Besides’ – he looked back at the sea – ‘your father didn’t arrange it. I did. It is long past time you saw some of the lands you stand to inherit. Lord Donough is one of your father’s vassals in Glenarm. He is a good man. You will be a page and serve his table, put into practice the hunting skills I have already taught you. And you will be instructed in the arts of war – learning to ride and to wield a sword. It will be the first step in your training for knighthood.’

  Robert stared at his grandfather. He felt a bubble of excitement at the thought of being trained to fight. But, still, Ireland seemed a long way from the only home he knew. ‘Why Antrim? Can I not be fostered to a family in Ayr, or somewhere closer?’ He brightened with an idea. ‘Or to you in Lochmaben, Grandfather?’

  ‘In time, perhaps. For now, your path is set. Lord Donough has sons of his own. One, Cormac, is around your age I believe.’

  Robert looked away with a frown, not ready to be mollified.

  But his grandfather grasped his shoulders and turned him to face him, fixing him with his dark, hawk-like eyes. ‘Your mother’s line stretches back to the O’Neill kings of Ireland and mine through my grandfather, the Earl of Huntingdon, to King David and his father, Malcolm Canmore. The blood of kings runs in your veins, Robert. This you know. But what I have not told you before is that our king’s father, Alexander II, named me as his successor.’

  Robert stared up at him in astonishment. ‘But his son . . .?’

  ‘It was before our king was born. Alexander, at that time, had no heirs.’ The old lord took his hands from Robert’s shoulders and leaned against the parapet wall. His mane of hair blew wild about his head in the breeze. ‘The king had organised a stag hunt in the royal park at Stirling. I went with him along with many nobles from the court. During the chase the king’s horse took a fall. He landed badly, crushed beneath his destrier, breaking several ribs. It could have been much worse and he knew it. In severe pain, Alexander insisted – before any of us could ride to the castle and fetch him a litter – that he name a successor. It was me.

  ‘In the dust of that forest track he made all the nobles present go down on one knee and recognise me as his heir. I was eighteen at the time.’ He inhaled sharply. ‘Two years later, Alexander had a son – our king – and his line was secured, but I have never forgotten the sense of purpose and pride I felt that day. It was as though . . .’ He frowned, searching for the words. ‘As though my blood awoke. I was aware of my part in the world and of the great line of men I belonged to, aware of the legacy each one had passed from father to son, down through the years to me. You, Robert, are now part of that line. In time, your father and I will die and you will inherit not only our fortune, but our place in this world, our . . .’ He smiled slightly, his eyes taking on a strange, faraway look. ‘Call it destiny if you will. You must be ready for that burden.’

  Robert nodded, inspired by the old man’s story. ‘I will be, Grandfather.’ He paused, looking out over the churning sea towards Ireland. ‘And I’ll make you proud.’

  ‘I know you will, my son.’

  The old man turned to watch the waves, not seeming to realise his mistake. Robert thought of his father crying into his mother’s gown, but didn’t correct him.

  Turnberry, Scotland, 1304 AD

  As Robert’s company neared the castle, the devastation caused during the English raid became apparent. Turnberry’s walls were blackened with smoke and damaged where timber beams had been burned away. The gates were long gone, the walls to either side tumbled down. In the gaping hole that was left the courtyard beyond was revealed. His constable, Andrew Boyd, had done as ordered, for the site had been mostly cleared of debris, piles of broken masonry heaped up outside the gates. Still, the place looked utterly forlorn.

  Looking at the village that stretched down the windswept bluffs to the shore, Robert saw signs of rebuilding, though there were far fewer houses than he remembered. Burned-out shells jutted like blackened teeth between newer buildings. He could see some villagers going about their business, shutting up chicken coops, pushing shutters to, setting muddy clogs outside the door and calling children in from the evening chill, but although Nes held the banner of Carrick hoisted above the company no one rushed to greet their earl. Robert’s return was met not by a fanfare, but by suspicious stares and closing doors. The men who had served in his company this past year might have come to forgive his long absence in England, but he had given the men and women of Turnberry no such reason to pardon him.

  Passing the piles of rubble and charred timbers outside the castle’s entrance, Robert noticed a splintered tree trunk looped with chains. It looked like it had been used as a battering ram. He imagined Humphrey standing here with an army, shouting orders as men heaved it against the castle gates. The thought brought the memory of the earl stepping in front of him and striking Aymer. Robert had played out that scene often since leaving the Forest, Humphrey telling him to continue to Turnberry as planned, while they returned to Dunfermline. The earl’s defence of him came loaded with guilt. Bastard though he was, Valence had his measure. And Humphrey he betrayed again.

  In the courtyard, carts and wagons were lined up beside a makeshift stable. Of the old stable and kennels, or any of the wooden and thatch outbuildings, there was no sign. There were a few other temporary structures around the courtyard. When Robert and his men approached the gates, two guards emerged from one of them. Seeing their lord had returned, one hastened into the castle.

  As Robert was dismounting, Andrew Boyd, Constable of Turnberry, came out to greet him. ‘Sir Robert, it is an honour to welcome you home.’

  ‘The honour is mine, Andrew,’ answered Robert, clasping the man’s outstretched hand. ‘I am glad to see you.’

  ‘I was expecting you sooner, according to your message. Did you encounter trouble on your journey?’

  ‘I had an unexpected detour – a mission for the king. But I’m here now and anxious for us to begin.’ Robert scanned the courtyard with a sense of determination. He had come here with the aim of seeking James Stewart, his plan to draw Wallace into his confidence back on track since he’d sabotaged the Forest raid, but now he was here he was eager to start the reconstruction the king had permitted him to carry out.

  ‘As you can see we are ready for the rebuilding.’ Boyd’s gaze drifted up the smoke-stained walls to the battlements. ‘The structure is still mostly sound. Turnberry will be as new in no time.’

  ‘Is there somewhere for me and my men to bed down? It has been a long journey.’

  ‘Of course. The great hall is mostly intact. But first, there is someone here to see you.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Robert, feeling a surge of hope as he wondered if the high steward had pre-empted him.

  ‘Your brother, sir.’

  As Boyd said this, Robert realised there was a man standing in the castle’s arched doorway. Alexander Bruce merged with the shadows in his plain brown robes and black hair.

  ‘I’ll see to your men, sir. You should talk with your brother alone.’ Boyd’s tone was grave. ‘As I said, the great hall is warm and dry.’

  Leaving the commander to direct the weary knights, Robert headed across the rubble-strewn yard to where his brother was waiting. He felt unease stir in him at Alexander’s solemn face. His brother was supposed to be at Cambridge, completing his Masters. He wasn’t due to take up his position as dean of Glasgow – as granted by King Edward – until later in the year. ‘Brother,’ he said, embracing him briefly. ‘What brings you?’

  Alexander returned the stiff greeting. ‘I’ve been waiting for you. I arrived at the king’s court a fortnight ago. They told me you would be coming here.’ His gaze remained hard, accusatory, then he shook his head and turned down the passage. ‘Come.’

  Robert gr
itted his teeth, knowing his younger brother liked to hold the power and would only stretch the waiting further if pressed. He followed in a taut silence along the dim passageway to the great hall.

  The hall was a sorry sight. The whitewashed walls were black with smoke. Gone were the trestles and benches that had once filled the grand chamber, now a dingy shell; an echo chamber for the sea’s muffled boom. The floor was covered in piles of blankets and sacks of belongings, the hall clearly having become a barracks for Boyd and his men. A few torches burned low in sconces on the walls.

  Seeing a ragged scrap of material hanging from one wall, Robert crossed to it. As he lifted a frayed and burned edge, he realised this was all that was left of the tapestry that depicted the moment Malcolm Canmore killed his rival, Macbeth, and took the throne, beginning the dynasty from which the Bruce family were descended.

  Alexander watched him for a moment, before speaking. ‘I bring tidings, brother.’ He drew in a breath as Robert turned to him. ‘Our father has passed away.’

  Robert let go of the burned tapestry, which drifted back against the wall.

  ‘He had a sickness of the lungs over the winter, from which he never recovered. He died shortly after the Christ Mass.’

  Robert leaned against the wall. He had a flash of memory: this hall filled with music and firelight, his father standing behind the head table, drink in hand, watching as Marjorie danced with their infant daughter Christian in her arms. As his wife spun in time to the rhythm of pipes and drums, Christian squealing with delight, a smile had played about the man’s lips.

  The wall was cold and damp against Robert’s back. He could smell charred timbers, mouldering stone and the bitter sea.

  ‘I have sent word to Isabel in Norway and Christian, Mary and Matilda in Mar,’ continued Alexander, his tone stilted. ‘I presume you can get word to our brothers?’

  ‘Thomas and Niall I haven’t seen in some time. The last I knew they were with James Stewart. Was he at peace?’ Robert asked suddenly, looking over at his brother.

  Alexander stared at him, then looked away. ‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘He died in his sleep. He made his confession the day before. The last rites were able to be observed in full.’

  ‘You took them?’

  ‘No. But I was there.’

  ‘Thank you, brother.’

  Alexander looked surprised. His frown lines disappeared and he seemed at once like the boy Robert remembered, standing there in his sombre brown robes. He made a move towards him, his face filling with tentative compassion. ‘Robert, I—’

  The sound of raised voices came to them from outside.

  Robert glanced round, frowning at the interruption, but when he looked back Alexander had straightened, his face closing in. ‘I should see what the commotion is,’ he told his brother.

  Alexander nodded in silence, letting him go.

  As Robert reached the door to the courtyard, Nes almost walked straight into him. Over his squire’s shoulder, Robert saw two men standing with horses by the gates. Andrew Boyd was with them, surrounded by a group of knights. Their voices were raised in question, men shouting over one another to be heard.

  ‘What is it?’ Robert asked Nes.

  ‘Two of Sir Andrew’s men have come from Ayr where they were recruiting more labourers. A company arrived there, fleeing the Forest. They say John Comyn and his army will surrender to King Edward. Sir, they say the war is over.’

  Chapter 37

  St Andrews, Scotland, 1304 AD

  The nobles of Scotland crowded into the great hall of St Andrews Castle, their sodden cloaks dripping on the flagstones. Smells of damp fur and stale sweat mingled with the tang of armour. Men coughed and sniffed in the dank air. Outside, rain came down in sheets, obscuring the town and the windswept sands that stretched in a vast crescent from the outcrop of rocks the castle was built upon.

  King Edward looked down on the damp and miserable host from the raised height of the hall’s dais. His officials stood to either side of his throne. As he waited for the last men to file in, he let his eyes drift across the company. Few, he was satisfied to see, could meet his gaze. There in the front row, head bowed, rainwater dribbling from the ends of his hair, stood Ingram de Umfraville, alongside John of Menteith and Robert Wishart. Close by was the Black Comyn with his nephew, the fourteen-year-old Earl of Fife. One or two did lock eyes with him, William Lamberton among them, but these little acts of defiance meant nothing to the king. His victory was plain to see in the downcast stares and grim expressions of the majority of the Scots gathered before him.

  As the doorwards pulled the great doors shut, Edward fixed on John Comyn, standing before the dais. The Lord of Badenoch was rather more salubriously dressed than he had been last week when he came before the king to present the Scots’ terms of surrender. He had shaved and his dark hair, long and unkempt from a winter living rough in the Forest, had been clipped and washed. Despite appearances, the young man had conducted himself well when delivering his conditions. So different, Edward had mused, to the wretched submission the man’s uncle, John Balliol, had made eight years earlier. He could respect him for that. As to the terms themselves, they had been rather expansive, but Edward was feeling magnanimous. He could afford to be.

  ‘Welcome, men of Scotland.’ The king’s voice resonated in the crowded chamber. Any murmurs or shuffling of feet faded into a hush. ‘I am pleased to see so many of you standing before me today in peace. None of us wished this war to continue unchecked. The terms of your surrender, as put forward by your guardian, Sir John Comyn of Badenoch, I hereby accept.’ The king nodded to Sir John Segrave, who was standing beside the throne, holding a roll of parchment.

  As the English Lieutenant of Scotland walked to the edge of the dais his limp, caused by the injury sustained in the attack at Roslin, was apparent. Unrolling the parchment, he began to read. ‘Edward, by God’s grace, illustrious King of England, Duke of Gascony, lord of Ireland, conqueror of Wales and overlord of Scotland, in accordance with the surrender of the people of Scotland, agrees that no man, including those involved in rebellion against him, will be disinherited. Nor will any face imprisonment for his actions, although a list of those who are to be exiled for a period of time has been drawn up and will be enforced. It is conceded that so long as any Englishman imprisoned in Scotland is released immediately, without penalty, the same freedom shall be awarded to any Scot currently in captivity in England.’ Segrave paused to clear his throat, the sound harsh in the dead silence.

  ‘Those who have forfeited estates will be able to gain back their lands, at a cost of between one and five years the value of the holding, depending on the severity of each claimant’s part in the rebellion. Scotland will benefit from the liberties, laws and customs enjoyed under King Alexander III. But King Edward no longer recognises the kingdom of Scotland. Henceforth, it will be a land and he will draw up a new set of ordinances for its government. To this end, he takes into his care Earl Duncan of Fife.’

  Edward stiffened at the murmurs of discontent that rippled through the hall, but he was pleased to see John Comyn turn to rake the assembly with a glare that soon silenced any dissatisfaction. This was one of his most important terms: one he would not compromise on. The Stone of Destiny might be entombed in Westminster and John Balliol powerless in France, but he wanted the Scots to see, once and for all, that there would be no new sovereign on their throne. The fourteen-year-old earl, whose hereditary right it was to crown a king, was the last glimmer of that hope. Fife would remain in England.

  The king watched, satisfied, as two royal knights marched unchallenged to where the young earl was standing with his uncle. The Black Comyn appeared furious, but he stepped aside all the same, allowing the knights to escort his nephew, who looked pale and shaken, to the front of the hall, where all could see the symbolism of the act.

  John Comyn’s face had tightened, but he didn’t contest. Faced with the choice of losing Fife, or gaining back his vast possessio
ns, even at a cost, it was clear where his priorities lay. As Segrave finished, rolling up the parchment, Comyn bowed to Edward. ‘My lord king, on behalf of the men of Scotland, I accept.’

  ‘There is one last thing,’ said Edward, rising as Segrave returned to his place. ‘One man to whom I will not extend my peace.’ His voice rang imperiously. ‘William Wallace has refused to submit himself to my mercy, therefore he shall be shown none. I want him hunted down and brought to me.’ The king’s gaze roved across the men in the front row, fixing last on the three guardians, John Comyn, Ingram de Umfraville and William Lamberton. ‘Whosoever captures him will be freed from any of the obligations laid out in the terms. That man will serve no exile and will face no reparations for the return of his lands.’

  Edward didn’t miss the spark of interest in John Comyn’s eyes.

  When his officials declared the parliament closed and the Scots began to troop out slowly, directed to an adjacent chamber where they would set their seals to the surrender, the king sat back in his throne. After eight long years, Scotland had finally bowed before him. His rule of Britain was almost complete. Two loose threads remained, in the form of Stirling Castle whose garrison still held against him, and William Wallace, on the run with a ragged band of outlaws. One good tug and both would be pulled. Edward smiled, feeling an unfamiliar sense of calm.

  ‘My lord.’

  He looked round, surprised by the woman’s voice, to see his eldest daughter Joan had appeared on the dais.

  ‘I did not know you were present, my dear.’

  Joan nodded, although her eyes remained downcast. ‘I didn’t want to miss your hour of triumph.’ She hesitated, then crossed to the throne and crouched before him. ‘Father, I’ve watched you pardon your enemies here today – men who have raised fire and sword against you. Ralph de Monthermer’s only crime was in loving me. Can you not extend the same forgiveness to a man who has served you faithfully for so many years?’