by Robyn Young
‘No,’ said Edward, grasping his shoulder. ‘I saw what they did to Wallace, saw the depth of the king’s hatred in every act of his executioners. You are tainted by association. That letter connects you to him. The king will see Wallace when he looks at you now, will fear some ghost of the rebel. Valence may be a bastard, but he isn’t wrong. You betrayed them before. It will be easier for them to believe your guilt than your innocence and I will not watch what happened to William Wallace happen to you.’
Robert, scanning his brother’s face, saw a rare fear in his eyes. He nodded. ‘We’ll go through the abbey. We can disappear among the crowds. If we leave by the north transept we come out in the cemetery. We’ll climb the precinct wall to get to the river, head along the banks.’
Close together, the brothers moved out from between the stores, hastened across the muddy ground and vaulted the low fence. Ahead, two men – peasants by their clogs and simple clothes – were making their way towards the abbey.
Robert fixed on them, an idea forming. ‘You there,’ he called, ducking through the archway in the wall. ‘I need your cloaks.’
The men looked round, frowning at the strange request. One started to shake his head, then stopped as Robert unfastened the brooch pin that held his mantle in place.
Drawing the garment from his shoulders, Robert proffered it to the man, glancing around warily. ‘We’ll give you ours in return,’ he said, nodding to Edward who followed suit, seeing what he was thinking.
The men stared in astonishment. The lined silk cloaks shone in the grey afternoon, the threads of silver and gold glinting. After a pause, they began shrugging off their own, the patterned wool faded by sun, patched in places and soggy with rain. Robert took one, Edward the other. Draping them around their shoulders, leaving the peasants with the spoils, the brothers jogged across the grass to join the pilgrims and poor filing into the abbey.
Robert pulled up the cloak’s hood, catching the unfamiliar smell of another’s man sweat. He had sheathed his broadsword, but it would only take a trained eye to detect the outline of the blade through the thin material. As they approached the doors, passing under the leering heads of gargoyles, he wedged himself in among a group of beggars, trying to conceal himself from the guards who stood talking to one another by the entrance, eyeing the shuffling procession. Keeping his head down, hunching his shoulders, he willed himself to be invisible. He needn’t have worried. To be a peasant was to be invisible. The knights didn’t so much look at him and his ragged fellows, as look through them. They didn’t see an earl in a beggar’s cloak, carrying a sword into the house of God. They saw another set of threadbare garments that concealed only poverty and hunger.
Within moments, they were through, moving in a slow tide of men and women, frankincense masking the stink of the poor. Many of the newcomers fixed on the almoners who were doling out coins. Others looked around them as they moved down the aisle towards the king’s charity, pushing back rain-damp hoods to gape at the great pillars that lifted the abbey’s interior heavenward, tier upon marble tier, towards God. The cavernous space was aglow with candles that gleamed in the gilt and bronze of statues, and glimmered in the murals that adorned the walls of the newer parts of the building, decorated by the king’s father, Henry III. The abbey was a place of splendour, fit for Christ Himself, far removed from the dirt and drudgery of their lives.
Robert saw more guards standing sentry around two of the holy relics the abbey housed – a tooth of one of the Magi and a stone embedded with a footprint of Christ – on display for the benefit of the pilgrims. Many people were kneeling there, hands clasped. Whispered entreaties filled the nave, rising into the darkness of the vault. He kept his head lowered, eyes on the floor, which changed from worn flagstones to a pavement of gems at the crossing of the church. The people ahead of them were diverging, some heading to the almoners for food, others moving on towards the carved and painted screen at the heart of the abbey, behind which was the shrine of the Confessor. Here, Robert halted.
‘Brother,’ whispered Edward, nodding towards the small door in the north transept that would take them to the cemetery. ‘Look. The way is clear.’
‘Not yet,’ murmured Robert, his gaze fixed on the screen. Beyond, lay the answers he sought. The relics had been locked in the Tower, out of reach all this time. Now, here they were, yards from him, a display of the king’s might shown to his subjects on the day he set the seal on his conquest of Scotland. The shrewd old bastard had enticed them with blood, bread and blessings, so they would spread word of his authority, benevolence and magnificence. Robert had come here once today already. He would not be turned away again. The risk changed nothing. If anything, it made him more determined. This, he knew, would be his last chance.
Ignoring Edward’s whispered protests, he made his way through the press of pilgrims towards the carved screen. His eyes went to the coronation chair, raised on its carpeted dais, entrapping the Stone of Destiny. He felt the pull towards it – thoughts of rescue and atonement in his mind – but he pushed the desire aside. The stone had taken three men to lift it when the Knights of the Dragon took it from Scone Abbey. Focusing on what he had come for, he made his way around the screen, his brother close at his side.
The base of the shrine was surrounded by worshippers. Some knelt in the niches, praying as close to the saint’s body as possible, while those unable to get that near radiated out in a tight circle. Others paused on the periphery before moving on around the other side of the screen in a constant stream of worship. A large number, Robert realised, were afflicted by deformities, the Confessor’s bones believed to be a potent cure. Above the shrine’s stone base, the painted canopy hung suspended, lifted to reveal the feretory that housed the saint’s remains.
Robert’s gaze alighted on the altar, draped with a cloth on which were placed four objects. There was the Crown of Arthur, taken from the Welsh prince Madog ap Llywelyn after the last uprising, resting on a velvet cushion. Beside it was Curtana, the Sword of Mercy, once wielded by the Confessor himself. Between them, lying across the length of the altar, was the Staff of Malachy, its gem-encrusted sheath glimmering in the glow of several candles. Lastly, Robert fixed on the black lacquered box, in which the king kept the Last Prophecy. Two guards dressed in scarlet stood to either side of the altar, keeping watch over the treasures.
Robert spoke to his brother beneath his breath. ‘I’m going to take the prophecy box.’
‘Robert – no. It’s not worth your life!’
‘Please, Edward, you have to help me. Trust me on this, if nothing else.’
Edward studied him, his face registering surprise at the plea in his voice. In answer, he reached inside the folds of the tatty cloak and gripped the hilt of the sword taken from Brian.
They inched forward, forcing their way through the circle of worshippers. A few people looked up, frowning. One or two muttered at them to wait their turn. The guards glanced over, but said nothing. The brothers were almost at the altar when they heard raised voices beyond the screen. Robert went cold as he recognised the harsh tone of Aymer de Valence.
‘They’re in here somewhere. Those peasants saw them enter. Find them!’
Robert’s heart sank as he realised their cloaks must have given them away. In desperation, he lunged for the altar, thrusting people aside. The two guards, distracted by the shouts on the other side of the screen, saw him coming at the last moment. One cried a warning and went for his sword, but Robert had already drawn his. Sweeping the blade out from under the cloak, he thrust towards the guard, who staggered back, knocking into a man kneeling behind him. He went down, cracking his skull on the base of the shrine.
The sight of the blade and the shout of the falling guard drew men and women from their prayers. People began scrabbling to their feet as the second guard drew his sword and went at Robert. The ring of blades roused the rest of the pilgrims. At once, the crowd began to move, pushing to get away from the altar and the two men battling be
fore it. Lines of people were still making their way into the shrine and a crush formed, those trying to get in preventing others from getting out. Cries of fear rose as the elderly and infirm were caught up in the press. The first guard had pushed himself up on his knees, but had dropped his sword in the fall and was groping to find it beneath the trampling feet.
‘I’ve got him!’ shouted Edward, moving in front of Robert to tackle the second.
Needing no encouragement, Robert went for the box. A sudden surge of people caused him to lose his balance and he crashed into the altar. The Crown of Arthur slipped from its cushion as Curtana jolted into it and the Staff of Malachy was knocked into the black box, which slid across the altar cloth. Robert lunged. Too late. The box fell to the stone steps with a crack. At the same time, two of the candles toppled over, the flames gusting across the delicate silk of the altar cloth. Fire sprang to life.
Behind him, Robert could hear Aymer and his men trying to battle their way into the shrine, causing panic among the pilgrims. Screams rose as people were knocked to their knees and trampled. His brother punched the pommel of his sword into the second guard’s face, breaking his nose, then kicked him in the stomach, causing him to double up. Robert bent and grabbed the prophecy box. Although the lid remained shut, a split had appeared in the side of the wood revealing the interior. A cold thrill went through him. There was nothing – nothing except the dark, shiny surface reflecting back on itself. No scraps of parchment, no dust even. The box was empty.
‘Come on!’ urged Edward, appearing at his side.
Robert paused, his eyes on the altar, where the cloth was smouldering. Then, thrusting the box at his brother, he took hold of the Staff of Malachy.
As Aymer and his men forced their way through the crowds now fleeing the abbey in all directions, Robert and Edward plunged into the chaos. Blades sheathed and hoods up, the treasures concealed beneath their cloaks, they were indistinguishable from the ragged multitude. Reaching the door in the north transept, through which streams of people were pressing, Robert glanced back. Canons were running to put out the fire in the Confessor’s shrine, shouting in alarm as smoke plumed. He saw Aymer de Valence grabbing hold of people as they passed, ripping back hoods in a fury, then he was barrelling through the doors into the grey afternoon, the Staff of Malachy gripped in his fist. As he and Edward crossed the cemetery, leaping graves, making for the wall that ran alongside the Tyburn, a face filled Robert’s thoughts – conjured by the promise of freedom. The face of the man he was certain had betrayed him.
John Comyn.
Chapter 49
Dumfries, Scotland, 1306 AD
The men moved quickly through the backlands that wound behind the cramped labyrinth of wattle and daub houses. By these narrow paths they avoided the main thoroughfare where townsfolk were heading home for the day, hunched against the wind streaming up from the River Nith. It was early evening, just before vespers, and the first stars were scattered like splintered gems around the horns of a new moon. There was a breath of snow in the brittle air. Remnants of the last fall were heaped along the edges of pathways, pounded to a filthy slush by people and animals.
As the men splashed through the stinking alleys, past cesspits, water barrels and animal pens, their boots crunching over the frozen refuse of middenheaps, rats scurried ahead of them in a black tide. There was a snarl followed by a crash as something large threw itself against a fence beside them. Christopher Seton stumbled back against the timber wall of a house, grasping the hilt of his sword as the snarl rose into a volley of barking. ‘Christ!’
‘Come on!’ Thomas Bruce urged, hastening on down the alley.
At an exclamation above him, Christopher looked up to catch a woman’s face, white in the shadows of a window. Seeing the men passing below, she pulled the shutters closed with a bang that roused the dog to a new frenzy. Drawing the hood of his black cloak lower, Christopher moved on after his comrades.
At the end of the terrace of houses a street opened before them, the cobbles mottled with frost. On the other side rose the wall of the Greyfriars’ monastery. The friary, established by John Balliol’s mother over forty years ago, dominated a ridge of land at the northern end of Dumfries. Further along the cobbled street, firelight and voices spilled from dwellings, people settling in for the night, shutting out the cold and dark. Wood-smoke sharpened the air.
Robert paused in the mouth of the alley, hearing the clop of hooves approaching. Four horsemen appeared in the street, heading uphill from the bridge across the Nith. They didn’t see the men who watched them from the shadows. Noting the swords protruding from their cloaks, Robert took them for another company arriving for the assembly tomorrow: one of the first gatherings of the justices chosen by King Edward for the new government. He felt a lance of fear, knowing how close he was to danger; the English garrison barracked less than two miles away at the royal castle. One slip and they would be on him. He had left the rest of his company with their horses on the outskirts of Dumfries – a necessity to keep his presence secret, but a fair distance if he had to flee.
When the horsemen had gone, Robert turned to his men and nodded. His brother Edward went first, slipping from the alley to cross the street. Niall followed, his slender silhouette lengthened by the black cloak he wore to conceal sword and mail. Four knights from Robert’s estates went after them, with Thomas, Christopher and Alexander Seton. Robert let the others go, but caught Alexander’s arm. ‘Are you with me?’
Alexander met his questioning gaze. ‘I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.’
After a pause, Robert released him, watching as he scanned the street before crossing in the wake of the others. He hadn’t expected their friendship, cemented nine years earlier after he joined the insurrection, to be as it was. He understood Alexander’s anger and resentment. Throwing his loyalty behind Robert all those years ago, the lord had forfeited his estates in East Lothian to the English, hoping Robert’s bid for the throne would see him eventually recover those losses. That hope had been destroyed when Robert submitted to King Edward, casting the cousins adrift. Even so, he had thought to have seen some thawing in his old friend by now. It had, after all, been two months since the cousins rejoined his company.
For a moment, he hesitated, wondering if he’d made the wrong decision involving the Setons in tonight’s affair. But there was no time for regrets. He was here and no one, friend nor foe, would stand in the way of the cold slice of justice he intended to serve up. He had waited five months for this.
Robert sprinted across the street, his boots scuffing the frost from the cobbles. Reaching the monastery wall he leapt up, grasping the top with his fingertips. Most of his comrades were already over, down among the cover of trees on the other side. Using rough protrusions of stone as footholds, straining with the effort – his mail coat greatly augmenting his weight – Robert pulled himself up. He was almost at the top when he heard voices. Two men were making their way up the moonlit street towards him. In his haste, he lost his footing and nearly fell, before two sets of hands grabbed his arms and hauled him up. Swinging his legs over the top, Robert jumped into darkness. For a split second he was back in Westminster vaulting from the abbey wall, the Staff of Malachy wedged in his belt, sounds of pursuit at his back. Then, he hit the ground hard, dropping to one knee, before righting himself with a nod of thanks to Thomas and Christopher who had helped him. On the other side of the wall the men’s voices sharpened as they passed by, then faded.
Adjusting his scabbard, Robert made his way to the edge of the trees, beyond which the ground was carved with frozen vegetable patches, vestiges of snow glinting in the furrows. The buildings of the friary rose ahead, pale in the wash of moonlight, an imposing church looming over lower structures that surrounded a cloister. Small outbuildings clustered around the main ones: a bakehouse and brewhouse, latrines and stables. The muted radiance of candlelight shone in several windows. The ten men threaded through the gardens, their black cloaks making th
em part of the darkness, footsteps muffled by snow.
At a corner of the buildings, Robert pressed himself against the wall, the others lining up beside him. Before him, a small yard opened out opposite a stable. He could smell the acrid stink of soiled straw. A lantern hung from a nail, creaking in the wind and spreading a slick of light across the ground. He could hear the whickers of horses, the rustle of a broom and voices. Two men emerged from the stables and headed across the yard. As they passed beneath the lantern, Robert fixed on their red surcoats, which had a familiar coat of arms embroidered on the chests. His scouts had been right. The confirmation settled in him, hardening his resolve.
Only the rush of the broom came from the stables now the men had gone. Robert turned to Edward and Thomas. ‘Find out where he is.’
His brothers came to the edge of the wall, dirks in their hands. Keeping an eye out, they stole across the yard to the stables.
‘You believe he’ll listen to you?’
Robert turned at Alexander’s question. The lord’s face was carved with darkness from the shadow of his hood. He couldn’t see his expression, but the doubt was clear in his tone. ‘What choice does he have?’
‘He may choose to fight. If he or his men alert the English garrison we—’
‘We won’t give him the chance,’ Robert cut across him. He looked back to see Edward peer into the gloom of the stables, then slip inside, Thomas following. There was a young voice raised in question, which became a cry that cut off abruptly. Sounds of a struggle and the whinny of startled horses were followed by silence. Finally, there was a grunt of pain, then the distinct noise of something being dragged. Edward and Thomas reappeared and made their way across to the waiting men. As they pushed their dirks into their belts beside their swords, Robert saw the blades were clean of blood. Only Thomas’s fist told a tale, the knuckles red.
‘He’s here all right,’ murmured Edward. ‘He and his men have been lodged in the guest room and the abbot’s house.’
