Insurrection: Renegade [02]

by Robyn Young

  Lamberton picked up a Book of Hours that was lying on the end of a shelf, covered in a fine layer of dust. He turned it over in his hands. ‘I wonder whose home this was? A burgess I presume?’ He looked up at Robert. ‘You’ve certainly won King Edward’s favour, Sir Robert.’

  ‘Your grace.’

  Lamberton set the book down at the sharpness of Robert’s tone. ‘Sir James is in Atholl, with your brother-in-law.’

  For Robert, the good tidings that the steward had been found were made all the better by the unexpected news. Having heard nothing of John of Atholl in months, he had feared the worst. ‘And Thomas and Niall?’

  ‘Your brothers are with them. Safe and well.’

  Relief tempered Robert’s impatience. Preoccupied by the long wait for word and the delay to his plans, he hadn’t realised how concerned he had been for his brothers. ‘So, James has offered to submit to the king?’

  ‘The steward thought it prudent. He didn’t want to be hunted like Sir William, with a price on his head and no safe haven. He wasn’t the only one. Sir John has also offered his surrender.’

  Robert nodded, taking this in. ‘This way we should be able to work towards my plan without undue interest from the king. The more such threats to his peace are mitigated, the more he will turn his full attention to those that remain.’ He began to pace. ‘Although that does present its own difficulties. When we spoke in St Andrews you said you didn’t know where Wallace had gone to ground.’ Robert turned to the bishop. ‘Did James have any idea how to contact him?’ He continued before Lamberton could answer. ‘The sooner we do so the better. Stirling cannot hold out much longer. When the castle falls, William Wallace will become the king’s primary target and he will avail himself of any means by which to ensure his capture. It’s a miracle he hasn’t been found yet, given the number of Scotsmen already employed in hunting him down.’ Robert paused, studying Lamberton’s expression. ‘You did speak to Sir James of my intentions?’ His brow furrowed when the bishop didn’t answer. ‘You gave me your word at St Andrews, your grace.’

  Robert watched as Lamberton crossed to the trestle and bench and sat himself down. Four months ago, shortly after the death of Robert’s father and his return to Edward’s court, the bishop had sought him out to ask why he had sent Nes to warn them of the English raid in Selkirk. Knowing he had exposed himself to the rebels by his actions, knowing too that he would need all the support he could get to set his bold plan in motion, Robert had confided in him. Admitting that although he was with the king in body he was not so in spirit, he spoke of the hope, held all this time in secret by himself and James, that if Balliol was prevented from returning to the throne of Scotland he, Robert, might one day lay claim to it. King Edward, he explained, had been a shield, protecting his interests without knowing it.

  Robert had gone on to tell Lamberton his plan, inspired by the return of William Wallace: to persuade the rebel leader to build another army in secret, the like of which had been raised for Stirling. With this force, they would strike back at Edward, using Robert’s knowledge of his weaknesses. If successful, he would take the throne and rally the support of the men of the realm, using Wallace’s reputation to help him. He had finished by asking Lamberton to find the steward; the one man who could convince Wallace to aid him to this end.

  The bishop had agreed, telling him to do nothing until he returned. Initially encouraged by the prospect, Robert had grown increasingly impatient for word. Now, by the gravity in Lamberton’s bearing, he had the distinct impression his faith in the bishop had been unjustified.

  ‘I spoke to Sir James, as I said I would,’ said Lamberton, looking at him. ‘I told him what you told me. Word for word.’

  ‘He didn’t agree with it?’

  ‘He and I both agreed that there is a chance we can undermine Edward’s control. Once the king has established the new government he will return to London with the majority of his men. Trouble grows for him in England, crime and poverty rising. He needs to turn his attention to his own kingdom if he is to prevent it from descending into disorder. That will be our moment for action. For a new uprising.’

  Robert was nodding. ‘Exactly.’

  ‘In previous campaigns our struggle has been weakened by divisions among our leaders. Our rebellions have been wildfires, burning bright and fierce for a short time, but ultimately consuming themselves. Animosities and personal ambitions have driven a wedge between each formation of guardians. With one man in charge – backed by all factions – the steward and I believe we stand a better chance of an uprising lasting more than a season. We can win back Scotland. But to do so we need to unite it.’

  ‘And this is what I intend to do, as king. With Wallace as my sword.’

  Lamberton laced his slender hands on the table’s pitted surface. ‘William Wallace can no longer help you to do this, Robert. You said it yourself: he is the king’s main target. Many of the nobles have been incited to hunt him down by promises from Edward that he will reduce the terms of their exile or the costs of buying back forfeited estates. Wallace cannot unite Scotland; indeed his presence would, I believe, disintegrate any attempt at unity we could make. The bastards would fight one another to be the one to drag him in irons to the king.’ He fixed Robert with his gaze. ‘You know I am right.’

  Robert shook his head, but the denial lacked conviction. The bishop’s words echoed concerns that had built in him these past months; seeing the king’s desire to find William Wallace growing into the fever of obsession, listening to reports coming in, many from Scots who had sighted the outlaw in this place or another.

  ‘In the eyes of many,’ continued Lamberton, ‘John Balliol still has the better right to be king. Do not forget that while he lives you are talking about overthrowing him. This is not a simple task. If you crowned yourself tomorrow, few would follow you. Even men who once supported you now see you as a traitor. In order for you to be accepted as king and for us to achieve the unification that could win us our kingdom we need the whole country to stand behind you. The only way to do that is to secure the endorsement of the one man who holds the greatest power in the realm. That man is not William Wallace. That man is John Comyn.’

  Robert stared at the bishop, stunned. ‘This is your plan?’ He gave a hard bark of laughter. ‘The steward’s plan?’

  ‘As guardian, John Comyn is invested with the right to speak for the men of the realm. But more than that, these past years he has built up a large and loyal following, supported by the army of Galloway. As Lord of Badenoch he has many vassals, augmented by his kinsmen, the Black Comyns and Comyns of Kilbride. Most importantly, he has delivered hope of victory with his triumphs at Lochmaben and Roslin.’

  ‘Victory?’ Robert shot back. ‘He caused the deaths of hundreds of Scotsmen through his own greed!’

  ‘And at whose hands did those deaths come?’ Lamberton responded, rising suddenly. The accusation blazed in his eyes. ‘That is what people will see if you stand before them now, Robert: your part in our defeat. I admit I find it hard not to see it myself. Alone, like Wallace, you have become a divisive force. Comyn, by contrast, has become the mortar that binds this realm together.’

  ‘I cannot believe James went along with this.’

  ‘He took some persuading,’ admitted Lamberton. ‘But in the end he saw I was right.’

  Anger pulsed through Robert. Anger at the steward for agreeing to this, at Lamberton for suggesting it and at the tiny part of himself that knew the bishop spoke sense. He fought against it. ‘James convinced me to submit to Edward. He put me in this position!’

  ‘He was right to do so. At the time, he believed King John would return. We all did. Submitting to Edward was the only way to safeguard your interests. Had you fought in the rebellion you too would now be struggling to buy back your forfeited lands, perhaps spending time in exile. Instead, you are immune from persecution and find yourself in the unique position of being instrumental in setting up the new government; of being
in a position of power in conquered Scotland.’

  Robert stared at him. ‘You’ve been fighting all this time for Balliol’s return, your grace. You headed the delegation in Paris. Why would you help me overthrow him?’

  ‘Because I know now that John Balliol will never sit on Scotland’s throne. I know, too, that the steward and Robert Wishart pledged support for your claim a long time ago. I trust their judgement.’

  ‘There are others with a claim,’ murmured Robert. ‘John Comyn included.’

  ‘None is as strong as yours. Your grandfather would have been king, chosen by the men of the realm, had Edward not elected Balliol. Many believed the Lord of Annandale had the stronger claim. There would be a sense of justice, I believe, in making his progeny king. The world as it should have been. A slate wiped clean. It is something we could build on among the men. Something that could help your reputation.’

  Robert’s eyes fixed on the jug of dead flowers in the hearth. The petals were brown and brittle, curled up like dead spiders. In his mind, he saw the round hall at Peebles, himself and John Comyn in the middle of a crowd of men. He saw the hatred in Comyn’s face, a hatred that had seeped through generations, fed by each, to grow to maturity in them. He saw the blade of a dagger coming up to his throat, Comyn’s arm locking around his neck; saw their comrades drawing weapons, going at one another. ‘You speak of the necessity of unity, your grace. You were at Peebles. You saw what happened the last time John Comyn and I were set together as guardians.’ Robert shook his head. ‘It cannot work.’

  ‘It has to, Robert. None of us can fight King Edward alone. It will take the influence of John Comyn and the rightness of your claim to rally the kingdom and break his will.’

  Robert turned from the bishop, his thoughts fractured. On the one hand, he was desperate to make a move – to break these shackles of loyalty to a king he loathed – to stand up and reclaim what had been taken from his family. Lamberton seemed to be offering him this. But the price?

  He and Wallace hadn’t always seen eye to eye, but Robert respected the man: his unerring vision for a liberated Scotland, his steadfastness and loyalty to his men, his single-minded ferocity on the battlefield. John Comyn was another prospect entirely. The man was his blood enemy. Lamberton was asking him to forgive decades of hatred; to ignore all that the Comyns had done to his family, and his to theirs. In short, to trust him. His choice was the devil or the deep.

  Robert’s decision settled inside him. ‘As you say, King Edward has placed me in a position of authority. Furthermore, he will need a lieutenant in Scotland when he leaves.’ He turned back to Lamberton. ‘I haven’t lost hope yet, but if you are right and I cannot use Wallace to raise an army then I’ll use whatever authority the king gives me to rebuild my influence in Scotland. I believe, in time, he may be persuaded to appoint me sole guardian. It will take longer, yes, but from that position of power I could vie for the throne.’

  ‘Do not make the same mistake as your father, Robert,’ urged Lamberton. ‘He lived on the king’s promises. In the end what did those scraps bring him but a lonely death in England?’

  Fionn rose suddenly from his place by the bed and barked. A second later the door opened and Nes appeared. ‘Sir, it’s the king. He’s been shot.’

  Chapter 40

  Robert pushed his way through the crowds clustered around the royal pavilion, the flaps of which were firmly closed. There was an agitated hum of voices as knights and barons recounted the moment the arrow had shot from Stirling’s battlements. A few lamented the fact they hadn’t seen it coming. Others cursed the Scot who had shot the fateful bolt, swearing vengeance upon the garrison.

  Robert felt a strange excitement in the tension that crackled through the throng; a sense that everything was about to change and his place in the world with it. If Edward was dead, his twenty-year-old son would be crowned king. The prince, from what his brother had told him, shared none of the king’s obsession with the conquest of Scotland, his own passions lying elsewhere. What was more, young Edward would rely heavily on the experience and counsel of older men at the start of his reign. If Robert was one of those men, could he persuade him to return Scotland’s liberty? Persuade him that the country needed a king if peace and prosperity were to be maintained?

  As Robert neared the pavilion the flaps opened and Humphrey emerged. The earl looked drained, but he smiled and lifted his hands to the gathering, motioning for quiet. ‘Our king is well.’

  The ripple of relief through the crowd swelled into loud applause.

  ‘The arrow pierced his flesh, but the wound is superficial. His physician expects him to heal quickly.’

  Numbly, Robert felt men jostle him as they continued to praise God at Humphrey’s words. He stared at the earl, hope seeping from him. The old bastard had survived?

  ‘King Edward is anxious that the incident cause no further disruption to the assault on Stirling. Indeed, he intends to join us for Warwolf’s inauguration.’

  The applause thundered.

  ‘Bring the beast!’ Humphrey roared.

  As engineers began to break from the crowd, moving to execute the order, Humphrey spied Robert standing there. He came over, his brow knotting. ‘Robert?’ He clasped his shoulder. ‘You look as pale as a ghost.’

  Robert roused himself. ‘I just heard what happened.’

  ‘It was a shock to us all.’ Humphrey lowered his voice as men hurried past, returning to their duties, the camp now buzzing with the prospect of retribution. ‘I must admit, I thought him done for. The physician said he must have lost consciousness with the pain. He came to as we were removing his armour.’ The earl shook his head in wonderment. ‘I swear, as the arrow was being pulled out he was sitting there telling me how he would have his revenge on the garrison by sundown. There are oxen with less—’

  ‘Can I see him?’

  Humphrey faltered. ‘Now?’

  ‘It was one of my countrymen who shot him.’ Robert met the earl’s gaze, the lie solidifying. ‘I don’t want this to jeopardise the peace we have all worked so hard to secure. I want to make sure the deeds of a few don’t affect the fate of many.’

  Humphrey nodded after a pause. ‘Let me see if he will grant you an audience.’

  Robert waited, his heart beginning to thud, as the earl ducked inside. The conversation with Lamberton, momentarily overshadowed by the possibility of the king’s death, flooded his mind, charging him with a sense of urgency. He had waited months, hoping the bishop would return with the answer he sought. But all he had been offered was a poisoned chalice. He wanted to prove Lamberton wrong, prove he could get what he wanted his own way; that he didn’t have to work with John Comyn to achieve it. The bishop was right – he had won the king’s favour. It was time to see just what that would buy him.

  Humphrey appeared and motioned to him. As Robert moved to push through the pavilion’s flaps, the earl put a hand on his shoulder. ‘The king may be as tough as old hide, but take care not to weary him.’

  Moving past the royal guards at the entrance, Robert stepped inside the pavilion. Oil lanterns bathed the interior in a coppery glow, gleaming in the gilt work on the cushioned throne and chairs still set out in a row for the queen and her ladies. The seats were empty. A servant moved past Robert, carrying a basin of water that was tinged red. Beyond, in another section of the tent, partially obscured by richly patterned drapes, he could see the king.

  Edward was sitting on a stool, his physician stooping behind him wielding a needle. The king was bare-chested, wearing only his hose and braies. His stomach was creased with loose skin, but his chest, bristling with white hairs, was still slabbed with muscle, as were his arms, which rested tensely at his sides while the physician worked. There was a knotted scar just over the king’s heart; an older wound. That riddle of scar tissue showed just how close the Assassin’s dagger had come to killing him, missing the target of his heart by inches. Edward had survived deadly encounters on battlefields in England, Wale
s, Scotland, France and the Holy Land, hunting accidents, fevers, the collapse of a tower that was struck by lightning, storms at sea. And, now, that charmed arrow. It was as if death itself was afraid to claim him.

  The king wasn’t alone in the tent. Queen Marguerite stood close by, wincing every time the needle swooped in for another pass through the king’s shoulder. Further back, standing alone by the tent’s side, was Prince Edward, his face a mask of apprehension. There were others – Bishop Bek and Thomas of Lancaster, several royal advisers and a number of pages – but Robert only had eyes for the king.

  Edward fixed on him as he approached. ‘Sir Robert. Humphrey tells me you have something to say.’

  ‘I wanted to pay my respects, my lord, and to reaffirm my fealty. I am keen that the actions of Stirling’s garrison do not colour your judgement of all Scotsmen.’

  As the king stared at him, skeins of incense drifted between them, curling from a censer. The smoky perfume couldn’t fully disguise the odours of sweat and blood. In the corner of his eye Robert saw a broken arrow lying on the chest, its shaft slick and red. He felt a twinge in his shoulder where the crossbow bolt had punctured his flesh. We are even now, he thought, meeting Edward’s pale gaze.

  ‘One man, not the kingdom, shot the arrow,’ said the king finally. ‘I was careless. It has taught me the value of caution and reminded me of the need to guard my back around my enemies. The Scots are a devious race.’

  Robert didn’t miss the smile that curled Bishop Bek’s mouth.

  Once the physician had finished stitching the wound and cut the thread, Edward flexed his shoulder carefully, then stood. ‘Was there something else?’

  Robert hesitated, not wanting to speak in front of Bek and the others.

  The king frowned, then motioned brusquely to his family and advisers. ‘Leave us.’