by Robyn Young
‘Where is he now?’ Robert asked, eyeing the two buildings Edward motioned to.
‘The groom said they’re at supper,’ answered Thomas. ‘In the refectory.’
Robert cursed. He had dearly hoped to come upon his enemy unawares and alone. ‘How many horses in the stables?’
Thomas shook his head. ‘Hard to tell. A dozen or more?’
Edward studied Robert. ‘If you’re thinking of storming the refectory it could go badly for us. This wasn’t planned to be a bloodbath.’
Making a decision, Robert pushed himself from the wall and headed across the yard towards the building the two men had disappeared inside. The others followed warily, looking around. There was a row of high arched windows stained by the ruddy glow of firelight. Pausing beneath them, Robert heard voices coming from within, along with muffled laughter and the clatter of dishes. Gesturing to Niall, the tallest and lightest, he crouched and laced his gloved hands together like a stirrup, nodding to Thomas to help him. As Niall stepped into their cupped hands, using the refectory wall to balance himself, Robert and Thomas hefted him up. The others gathered in a tight circle around them, eyeing the yard and the doorways leading into the buildings.
‘Twenty men,’ whispered Niall, when they lowered him back down. ‘Three of them pages by the look of them. But he’s not among them,’ he finished, looking at Robert.
‘We should go,’ said Alexander. ‘It’s almost vespers. We can come back tonight when they’ve retired.’
‘No,’ murmured Robert, impatience stinging him. ‘We’ll split up and find him. If he’s somewhere alone, this will be our best chance.’ Ignoring Alexander’s evident dissatisfaction, he ordered the lord to check the monastery’s guest quarters. ‘Go with him,’ he told his three brothers and one of his knights. ‘We’ll take the abbot’s lodgings.’ Robert caught Edward’s eye. ‘If you find him I want to be the one to question him, understood?’
As the two parties divided, Robert led Christopher and the other three knights to the abbot’s lodge, built just off the church. The windows were unpromisingly dark. As he was approaching the door, he caught the crunch of footsteps in snow. He and his men ducked into the porch as three friars went past, ghostly in their grey habits, breath misting the air. Robert peered out, following their progress with his gaze as they disappeared among the buildings around the cloister. He was turning back to the door when he caught sight of a set of footprints leading from the abbot’s house. The monks had trailed dark lines through the snow on their daily processions to sing the offices, all following the same route. These prints were a single set, heading to the church across the grass where the snow was still pristine. Seeing the shimmer of light in the windows, Robert felt a flicker of anticipation. ‘We’ll try the church first.’
‘The monks?’ cautioned Christopher.
But Robert was off, sprinting across the grass. Reaching the porch, he moved up to the door, grasped the latch and eased it down. There was a click and a creak as it opened. He put his face to the crack, scanning the nave beyond, the aisles of which faded into shadows. At the end of the nave pale gold candlelight seeped from behind the rood screen that hid the monks’ choir. He caught a strong smell of incense and guessed the three friars had been readying the church for the evening office. Alexander was right. He didn’t have long.
Unable to see much else from the doorway, Robert stepped inside. His four companions entered behind him, but lingered near the door at his signal, keeping watch. As Robert walked through the cold dusk of the nave, his footsteps hollow on the tiles, the glow of the candles up ahead flickered in the draught that had streamed in at his back. As he neared the choir, seeing no sign of anyone, his frustration built. At the crossing of the church, Robert halted, scowling into the peaceful gloom. He was about to turn on his heel, when he heard something.
Slipping in behind a pillar, he stared into the darkness at the end of the aisle. Moonlight slanted through the lofty windows, illuminating the floor at intervals. In the distance, shallow stone steps led into an opening – a small chapel, he guessed. A man appeared, descended the steps and turned down the aisle, heading towards Robert. As he passed through one of the swathes of moonlight his features were lit by the pallid sheen. It was John Comyn.
Robert fixed on that pinched, hungry face. It was that face that had spurred him from Westminster, fighting through the mud on the banks of the Tyburn to reach Nes and the horses; that face that had driven him into the Middlesex Forest, Aymer de Valence hot on his heels. Riding hard through the cover of the woods, stopping only when the horses were spent, he and his men had evaded capture, but the expectation of it never left him on the gruelling journey north. Taking tracks across country to skirt towns had added miles to their route and it was late September before Robert crossed the border. By the end of the month he was at Turnberry, greeting his wife and daughter, where, from his newly refortified castle, he summoned his tenants and allies. An early snowfall in late October had given him hope of a reprieve from pursuit, but Robert had known he didn’t have much time. The game was up: his treachery exposed. He had to make his plans fast, before retribution came. But all through the weeks of reunions and secret gatherings that followed, the face of John Comyn had continued to darken his thoughts.
John Comyn stopped dead as the black-cloaked figure swept out of the darkness at him, sword brandished. As Robert pushed back his hood, Comyn’s expression changed from startled surprise to deep shock.
At the sight of his enemy’s stunned disbelief, any vestiges of doubt over the origin of the letter found on William Wallace vanished from Robert. ‘What’s wrong, Sir John? You look as though you’ve seen a spirit.’ His voice shook, barely able to suppress the strength of feeling behind it. ‘I suppose I am, since you intended for my life to have ended back in London, my body and plans rotting in the Tower.’
Comyn licked at his lips. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Did King Edward not tell you I had returned to Scotland?’ Robert’s tone was caustic. He enjoyed the look in Comyn’s face, which told him the man knew nothing. Robert guessed the king had closed ranks after his escape. ‘I imagine, when you go to his assembly for the new justices tomorrow, you will find I am the order of the day.’ He stepped towards Comyn. ‘But we have business of our own to finish, you and me.’
John Comyn held his ground, but his eyes flicked past Robert to the church doors, where Christopher and the other knights were barring the way. ‘The friars will return at any moment. They will alert my men.’
‘I have one question. It won’t take long.’
‘Question?’
‘For months I wondered why you were delaying accepting my proposal. Now, I realise you had other plans. What I don’t understand is why.’ Robert’s brow creased. ‘Why did you do it, John? Why did you plant that letter on Wallace, betraying me to the English? Would you rather have Edward for a king?’
Anger flashed in Comyn’s eyes. ‘You and Edward aren’t our only choices. There were eleven other men with your grandfather and John Balliol whose claims were recognised during the trial.’ He punched his chest with his fist. ‘My father included.’
Robert stared at him in disbelief. ‘You mean to be king?’
‘Why not?’ Comyn demanded. ‘When you resigned as guardian I took control of the kingdom. While you were bowing to the English I was leading us to victory. Balliol is my kin and my family is still respected here, while yours is now forgotten, a relic of an age passed. You’ve been clinging to the last threads of power held by your grandfather. But, I tell you, it has slipped through your fingers. Scotland’s crown will not be yours while I’m still standing.’ Comyn’s face twisted. ‘You’re a two-faced knave, looking to steal himself a prize beyond his honour!’
‘Two-faced?’ Robert’s fingers whitened around the hilt of his broadsword. He thrust it towards Comyn, the tip pointed at his throat. ‘Shall I tell you how Wallace died, you son of a bitch?’ He flung his free hand down the aisle toward
s the chapel Comyn had come from. ‘God damn you, I hope you were praying for forgiveness!’
Comyn laughed harshly, though his eyes were on the sword. ‘Forgiveness? I need no forgiveness. Wallace was a wanted man. Edward would have strung him up sooner or later. His death is not on me.’
‘No? ?You drew him out of hiding, using John of Menteith.’ Robert caught the surprise in Comyn’s eyes. ‘Neil Campbell came to me at Turnberry. He told me about the ambush outside Glasgow – that Menteith had a large company of men with him, many more than are under his command, and that one was missing a hand. We both know that was MacDouall. Just as we know that you, of the few who knew what I was planning, would be the only one who would betray me.’
‘You cannot prove this. Any of it.’
Robert gave a grim half-smile. ‘In a small way I should thank you. Your duplicity pushed my plans forward, forcing me to take action. I’m finally free of Edward’s shackles. As we speak, my allies are preparing my coronation. What is more, you’re going to support me in my bid.’
John Comyn’s lips peeled back in a rictus of hate. ‘I would rather—’
‘You’ll support me or I will expose your betrayal. You gave Scotland’s champion to the enemy, so he could be carved up on the executioner’s slab. Wallace still commands the respect of many. Have you not heard the cries of outrage sweeping the realm since word of his death came north? What would those same people do if they knew you were behind it? You think they would follow you? They would hang you from the nearest tree!’
‘Robert!’
He jerked round to see Christopher had come halfway down the aisle.
‘The monks,’ hissed the knight. ‘They’re coming!’
‘Bar the doors,’ Robert growled in response. He was only distracted for a moment, but it was all Comyn needed to shove him in the chest, sending him crashing into one of the pillars. Even as he was recovering his balance, Comyn was pushing past him. Diving behind the rood screen, he sprinted across the choir towards a side door in the opposite aisle, Robert at his heels. The candles guttered at their passing, throwing shadows across the vaulting.
Lunging, Robert grabbed hold of the back of Comyn’s red surcoat, the material ripping as he brought him to a staggering stop. He ducked as Comyn swung round, aiming a fist at his face. Losing his grip, Robert snarled and thrust forward with his sword, meaning to clout him into submission. Comyn stumbled back from the blade, looking wildly around him. He leapt for the altar, grabbing a large silver candlestick. The candle slipped free, the flame extinguishing as it struck the tiled floor. Comyn brandished the stick two-handed. It was almost as long as a blade. Suddenly, he brought it carving in at Robert like an axe.
Robert twisted out of the way. ‘Support me in my bid! Refuse, and when I’m crowned I’ll run you and all your blood out of Scotland!’
In answer, Comyn came at him with a roar. Knocking Robert’s outstretched sword to one side with a crack of the candlestick, he brought it arcing into his side. The force it struck with would have broken ribs had Robert not been wearing mail. As it was, he was sent reeling into the monks’ choir stalls, one of the benches screeching across the tiles with him half sprawled on top of it. He dropped his sword. Christopher was shouting again. Faint calls rose from outside as the monks tried to get into the church and found the door barred.
Swiping his sword from the floor, Robert pushed himself up as Comyn came at him. He stooped under the strike that was aimed at his head and lashed out with his blade, his blood fired. The tip sliced Comyn’s upper arm, tearing through his clothes and scoring the flesh beneath. Comyn bellowed, but didn’t relinquish his grip on the candlestick. Robert’s heart thumped as he circled his enemy – the rapid rhythm of the battlefield. The candlelit choir, the hammering on the doors and calls of the monks faded, along with his reasoned intentions. He had come here to threaten Comyn’s reputation and standing, not his life. But that knowledge was dim now, pale in the face of the brute desire to batter the breath out of the man before him.
He pitched forward, meaning to carve another slice of flesh from him. Comyn reacted quickly, bringing the candlestick in to counter. Silver and steel met with a ringing clash that echoed through the vault. Robert felt the break before he saw it, the concussion vanishing abruptly as his broadsword snapped. The top half of the blade went flying to clatter among the choir stalls, leaving him holding the hilt and a jagged stump of metal. He stared aghast at the sword, given to him by his grandfather the day he was knighted, before Comyn stepped in through his defences and punched the candlestick into his stomach. The mail unable to absorb the savage impact, Robert doubled over.
‘Robert!’
As Christopher’s shout echoed through the nave followed by pounding footsteps, Robert grasped his dirk and freed it from his belt. He straightened and thrust at John Comyn, who was coming in again. Plunging the dagger into the man’s side, he shoved it up under his ribs. Eye to eye with Comyn, Robert felt the resistance as steel grazed bone, then the release as it slid on through muscle and organs. There was a rush of something hot over his hand. Blood flowed, dark like wine in the flame light. Comyn let go of the candlestick, which clanged to the tiles. He grasped Robert’s shoulder, his face changing from rage to surprise. Robert, teeth bared, twisted the knife, relishing the agony that flared in his enemy’s eyes.
Comyn shoved him away then teetered back against the altar. He looked down at the hilt of the dagger embedded in his ribs, then grasped it. Closing his eyes, face clenched, he pulled it out with a ragged cry. The hammering on the church doors was louder. Comyn sagged against the altar, blood pulsing from his side. More was in his mouth, staining his gritted teeth. Robert, stooped over and breathing hard, started as Christopher appeared at his side.
The knight’s face was tight with shock as he stared at Comyn. ‘We’ve got to go,’ he told Robert, tearing his gaze from the wounded man. ‘Now!’
The thudding on the church door had become a rhythmic boom. The monks were trying to ram it open. Any moment, Comyn’s men would arrive, if they hadn’t already. Robert realised with cold shock that his brothers were still out there, searching the grounds. He looked back at Comyn, propped against the altar, blood spattering the floor around him. The prospect of capture cleared his senses. Dear God, what had he done?
Christopher propelled him towards the side door in the aisle, which the other knights had unbolted and were now pushing through. ‘Go!’
As they started towards it there was a hoarse cry. Robert jerked round to see Comyn lunging at him, eyes wild, the bloody dagger in his fist. It was Christopher who turned and raised his sword, Christopher who plunged the length of steel into Comyn’s gut. The lord convulsed on the blade, gagging blood from his mouth, before the knight wrenched the sword free. John Comyn collapsed on the church floor where he lay still, blood seeping around him in a dark slick.
The three other knights were shouting at them to come. Robert heard his brother Edward outside, voice raised. The sound snapped him to life. Shoving Christopher before him, he made for the door, the two of them plunging into the frozen darkness of the churchyard. Torchlight bobbed in the gloom as Comyn’s men came running through the grounds. Edward, Niall and the others were there, gasping for breath, swords in their hands.
‘They saw us,’ Edward panted, seeing Robert.
‘This way!’ shouted Niall, making for the church wall.
The ten of them made it to the wall some distance ahead of Comyn’s men. Pushing his broken sword into his belt, Robert hauled himself up. His brothers and men were beside him, jumping down the other side one by one. Christopher was struggling to find purchase on the stones, his face white in the moonlight. He slipped suddenly and fell back with a cry, sprawling in the snow. Comyn’s men shouted in triumph, racing towards him, their torches throwing a red glow over the gravestones. Robert, straddling the wall, threw down a hand to the knight. Scrabbling to his feet, Christopher grabbed at it. Bracing himself, Robert hauled the knight u
p, gasping with the effort. Christopher reached the top, then swung himself over and dropped down. As Comyn’s men ran towards the wall, the light of their torches spread across it, briefly illuminating Robert.
‘Bruce!’ came the shout, as he jumped. ‘It’s Robert Bruce!’
PART 6
1306 AD
‘Make haste, therefore, to receive what God makes no delay to give you; to subdue those who are ready to receive your yoke; and to advance us all, who for your advancement will spare neither limbs nor life. And that you may accomplish this, I myself will attend you in person with ten thousand men.’
The History of the Kings of Britain, Geoffrey of Monmouth
Chapter 50
Dumbarton, Scotland, 1306 AD
In mid-February, when the winter snows were creeping back from the lowlands – green fields appearing, streams and rivers breaking their icy bonds and flowing free – a rumour started to spread.
It began as a murmur, carried on the lips of travellers passing through on newly cleared roads: tales of an uprising in the south. Within days, rumour had hardened into truth, settlements all along the border seething with the news that Robert Bruce had appeared in the night and roused the townsfolk of Dumfries to rebellion, storming the castle and routing King Edward’s new justices who had gathered there. This was soon followed by word that Bruce and his men had captured Dalswinton Castle, a Comyn stronghold. As the furore spread, with the fall of Tibbers, Ayr, Rothesay and Dunaverty to Bruce’s forces, English garrisons across Scotland began hauling up drawbridges and barring castle gates. Urgent messages were despatched south to King Edward. Robert Bruce, they said, had raised the standard of rebellion. And men were flocking to his banner.
For the first few weeks after the rising at Dumfries many Scots were still talking about it as something separate from them, something to discuss heatedly in the fields and churches of their villages where life continued much as normal in spite of the tumultuous events happening around them. Excited, troubled, agitated; all wondered if the storm would reach them, or whether it would simply blow itself out. Then, early in March, the distant rumbles of insurrection spread and grew louder, until everyone felt its coming.
