Insurrection: Renegade [02]

by Robyn Young

  At the end of last summer, Edward had thought his life’s work done. Wales, Ireland and Gascony were under his control as was Scotland, which he had turned from a kingdom into a land, taking the symbols of its sovereignty into his custody, first the Stone of Destiny then the young Earl of Fife with his hereditary right as kingmaker. The Scottish magnates had submitted to him, John Balliol was, by all accounts, drowning in claret and self-pity in Picardy and the quartered limbs of William Wallace were rotting in the sun. In gathering Brutus’s relics Edward had – in the eyes of his men – saved Britain from the ruin foretold in Merlin’s prophecy, embodying a new King Arthur. But all that time he’d had a serpent in his house, just waiting for the moment to slither from the shadows and strike.

  When the treachery of Robert Bruce was exposed, on the day of Wallace’s execution, rage had threatened to consume Edward. Later, discovering through the interrogation of the guards at the abbey that Bruce had taken both the Staff of Malachy and the prophecy box, he thought he would go insane with it. Then, gradually, over the months that followed, that madness had subsided to a burning, white-hot desire for vengeance. Edward knew now what Aymer de Valence had warned him of all along: his obsession with bringing down Wallace had blinded him to the threat of Bruce. He had underestimated the man: had thought him to be like his father, ambitious, but ultimately pliable.

  Now, reports were streaming in from garrisons across Scotland. Robert Bruce had murdered John Comyn and raised a rebellion. Castles in the west were falling to his forces and the first assembly of the king’s new council had been routed. With these frantic messages came word that Bruce was planning to seize the throne. It was playing out as the letter found on Wallace had implied it would, although the murder of Comyn had been a revelation.

  Often during these past weeks, Edward wondered if he could have acted sooner. Whether – the moment Valence and the company who had pursued Bruce north had returned empty-handed – he could have sent an army after the Scot. But the winter storms had been closing in and he’d needed time to summon his vassals and gather supplies for a counter-strike. Instead, Edward sent word to his garrisons along the border, ordering them to hunt down the renegade. Word had soon come back, informing him that Bruce was holed up in Turnberry, but that heavy snowfalls made it impossible for them to deploy siege engines that far west. With the castle newly strengthened and reports of a large force of men having joined Bruce, the king’s men feared an effective siege would be difficult to mount until the roads were clear. Edward had recalled them, ordering them to hold their positions. He hadn’t wanted to run the risk of Bruce dying in some futile skirmish. He wanted to capture the man himself. He had to, in order to redeem himself in the eyes of his subjects, or his life’s work would be for nothing, his legacy corrupted before his death. And so he had waited, all through the winter, gathering his forces and stoking that white-hot fire in his mind.

  A week ago, when the spring rains were swelling the waters of the Thames, Edward made Aymer de Valence his new Lieutenant of Scotland and sent the knight north at the head of a host of men. This advance was to subdue Bruce’s uprising and pin down the man himself until Edward could arrive with the royal army, fortified by his son and the young bloods being dubbed today. It did not matter that Bruce was an earl, or that he might even be king by the time they caught up with him. Chivalry had flown in the face of Edward’s rage. He would tear the man apart in front of his own people. His limbs, and those of any who supported him, would be strung up to rot next to Wallace’s, a banquet for the crows.

  At their parting, the king had given Valence the faded banner he had carried in war since youth. ‘Raise the dragon, cousin. No mercy is to be shown to any who have joined Bruce’s uprising; kill them all. But the man himself is mine. You understand?’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ Valence had promised, his dark eyes burning with zeal.

  To Edward, watching him ride out at the head of the host, he had seemed like a man embarking on a crusade.

  A cheer brought the king back to the present as another man was knighted. The excitement among the young recruits in the abbey didn’t extend to the barons ranked in front of Edward’s throne. These older men, who had sacrificed much in the fight against Scotland, were watching the spectacle in silence. Like him, they knew this was no feast day celebration, but as much a preparation for the coming war as the supplies of grain and meat being stockpiled in Carlisle, the taxes being levied and the soldiers being summoned by the commissioners of array. To them this ritual was another exercise in patience while they waited for the revenge they craved. Bruce’s betrayal had affected them all, but it had cut deepest through those he had been closest to, none more so than Humphrey de Bohun. All now wanted their pound of flesh; were ready to fight and die for it.

  But would these silent, belligerent men who had dedicated their lives in service to him – sworn oaths of undying loyalty around the oak of his Round Table – be so ready and willing if they knew the truth? Edward’s hands whitened on the arms of the throne as he thought of the locked box Robert Bruce had taken from Westminster Abbey. The box that contained the greatest lie of his reign.

  Chapter 53

  Balmullo, Scotland, 1306 AD

  ‘We go after him now, before the bastard has the chance to take the throne.’ Dungal MacDouall stalked the dais as he spoke, his voice splintered with fury. ‘Give me leave to raise the men of Galloway. We can still stop this.’

  The Black Comyn sat at the table, hands clasped as if in prayer, although his eyes remained open, fixed on a point in the hall before him, where his wife’s servants were scattering rushes over the floor. ‘No.’ The earl’s broad shoulders swelled as he inhaled. ‘We cannot. My scouts tell me Bruce intends to be crowned at Scone on the feast of the Annunciation. That is less than a week away. I have summoned my kin from Buchan and Badenoch, but the snows still lie heavy across much of the north. My people will not get here in time. Bruce’s army has grown since Dumfries. The Disinherited, however strong their lust for blood, will not be enough to counter his force.’

  MacDouall strode to the front of the table. Leaning forward, he forced the earl to look at him. ‘Bruce’s allies are claiming he was defending himself at Greyfriars, but John’s men told us the lord was unarmed when he went into that church. Bruce murdered my master – your kinsman – in cold blood! He cannot go unpunished.’

  ‘I am not suggesting he will,’ said the earl, his dark eyes fixing on MacDouall’s rigid face. ‘But we must have patience while we prepare our plans. Any action we take will be considered and well executed. I want our revenge to be both effective and lasting.’

  MacDouall’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. ‘Bruce must have had some warning back in London to have escaped their clutches, mustn’t he? We know the English found the letter we put on Wallace. We were supposed to be the ones planning a coronation, damn it. Bruce was meant to be rotting in the Tower!’

  ‘I expect we’ll never know what happened. We failed and John paid the price for that. All that is left to us is vengeance.’ The Black Comyn rose. ‘But it will be well served. When we strike, I want him to feel every inch of it.’

  ‘It will be regicide if we kill him when he’s king.’

  ‘I do not care what crown that brigand wears upon his head,’ growled the earl. ‘He will never be my king.’

  ‘What about the throne? Who will take it when we remove him?’

  ‘Those are questions for the future. First, we rouse our supporters. The Red and the Black Comyns and the Comyns of Kilbride will be ready when the time comes, but we need others. I will head west, meet with my allies there. The MacDougalls and their kin will join us, of that I am certain. John was the Lord of Argyll’s nephew. He must fulfil a blood oath against his murderer.’

  ‘Then I have leave to go to Galloway? Raise my men for our war?’

  ‘Yes. But when you have summoned the Disinherited you will not go after Bruce until I give the order. First, there is another alliance I
want you to secure.’

  Isabel watched from the window as the men gathered in the yard outside. Her husband was among them, his hulking, black-cloaked form moving purposefully through their ranks. The squares of leaded glass fragmented his progress, distorting her view as he mounted his warhorse, whipping the beast with the reins to keep it still. Around him, his knights and squires climbed into the saddles of their palfreys, the grooms leading pack-horses burdened with supplies. Her husband hadn’t deigned to tell her where he was going, but her stable-master had. He was heading for Argyll to raise his allies against Robert Bruce. Captain Dungal MacDouall had left that morning, taking the road south from the manor. As she watched her husband ride out along the western road, Isabel sensed the hot breath of war in the air.

  Beyond the track, fields and pastures rolled down towards the sea, seven miles away at St Andrews. Their brown contours were speckled with the first crops of oat and barley, the shades of green bright in the afternoon sun. Once, she would have felt the promise of spring, of hope in those new shoots. But now there was nothing in her heart but the wasted void of winter. As the horsemen disappeared from view, the crows settling in the fields once more, Isabel stepped back from the window. Catching sight of her reflection in the glass, she stared at the bruise that shadowed the side of her face, darkening to purple around her eye.

  She received it two days ago, for asking her husband what the rebellion would mean for her nephew, still in King Edward’s custody. His fist had been the answer, coming out of nowhere, shocking her to silence. Agnes had tried to put a poultice on it, but Isabel had stopped her. The bruises were a reassuring explanation for the pain. Crossing to the bed, the countess lay down, twisting the coverlet between her fingers as she watched the sky change from turquoise to indigo. Clouds were rearing in the east and the chamber was full of shadows by the time she closed her eyes.

  Isabel sat up suddenly, the covers falling back. She stared around her, disorientated by the change in the room. A candle on the stand opposite her bed guttered, causing shadows to shift across the walls. Agnes must have lit it while she was sleeping. Isabel was about to settle back down, thinking her dreams must have disturbed her, when she heard a piercing cry echo outside, followed by rough shouts and the thud of hooves. She scrambled from the bed, the fog of sleep vanishing instantly.

  Going quickly to the window, she saw a company of men riding in through the yard, wielding torches that threw a fierce red light up the sides of the barns and outbuildings. At first she thought her husband had returned, then she saw that these men had swords drawn. As she watched, the men the earl had left to guard the manor burst out from the door below. The horsemen spurred to meet them, the clash of weapons ringing in the night. Isabel whirled around as her door crashed open. Her maids came rushing in, along with several male servants, her cook and steward among them.

  Agnes’s face was drained of colour. ‘My lady,’ she cried, going to the countess and clutching her arms.

  ‘Who are they, Fergus?’ Isabel demanded of her steward, who was helping the cook and kitchen boys drag chests in front of the door, barricading it.

  ‘I don’t know, my lady,’ panted the steward. ‘The brigands slew the gatehouse guards and came at us out of the dark.’

  Outside, the crash of swords continued.

  As a ragged scream rose, Agnes gripped Isabel’s arms until her nails bit into the countess’s skin. ‘God save us!’

  Isabel’s eyes alighted on a poker hanging by the hearth. Pulling from the maid’s grasp, she crossed to it. Soot smattered the skirts of her grey silk gown as she lifted its iron length. ‘Offer them whatever they want, Fergus,’ she instructed her steward. ‘Coins. My jewels. Anything. You understand?’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  There was a bang below as the front door was forced open. Agnes was cowering in a corner. The other maids, all young girls, were pressed up against the wall, sobbing. The fluttering candlelight threw mad shadows over all of them. Fergus and the cook, who was wielding a saucepan, were standing before the door, behind the stack of chests, breathing hard. Crashing sounds echoed up from downstairs, punctuated by the odd shout. Heavy footfalls thumped up the stairs. Isabel gripped the poker, her heart thrumming in her chest. She heard doors being thrown open down the passage, an exchange of voices. She started as the bolt rattled on her bedchamber door. The voices were audible now.

  ‘This one’s locked, sir.’

  ‘Break it down.’

  The door shuddered in its frame as the men outside slammed against it, the chests jolting with every impact. Agnes and the maids were crying in terror; the cook and kitchen boys had staggered back. It was Isabel and Fergus now, standing before the door. With the next bang the bolt snapped off the frame and the door shuddered open, the chests sliding a little way across the floor. Isabel flinched as a man’s face appeared in the crack, torch flames lighting him from behind.

  He was bearded and rough-looking, his eyes lighting up as he saw her. His mouth twisted. ‘In here, sir!’

  Fergus moved to Isabel’s side as the men forced the door the rest of the way open, the coffers no match for their strength. One chest toppled, then the others. Isabel held her ground, though her arms were shaking. The rough man entered first, a sword in his hand. Behind him came one who was about the same age as her husband, with dark curly hair. Isabel’s eyes widened in recognition. It was the Earl of Atholl.

  He too had a sword in his hand, but he lowered it as he saw her. ‘Lady Isabel.’

  ‘Sir John?’ Isabel shook her head in confusion. ‘I thought you were a common brigand, come to rob me.’ Her relief retreated as she thought of the earl’s ally, Robert Bruce; her husband’s enemy and murderer of his kinsman. ‘Have you come to kill more Comyns?’ she murmured.

  Behind her, Agnes let out a whimper. Fergus stood his ground, but he was ashen in the torchlight.

  ‘That is not my intention.’

  ‘No?’ Isabel swallowed back the terrible dryness in her mouth. ‘You killed my guards.’

  ‘Only those who resisted. The rest have been disarmed. I will let them and all your household live if you come with me.’

  ‘The countess will go nowhere with you,’ warned Fergus, though his voice trembled.

  ‘Go where?’ asked Isabel, moving in front of her steward, the poker still brandished in front of her.

  John’s eyes, dark and intense like her husband’s, went to the makeshift weapon, then back to her. The corner of his mouth lifted, but the faint smile didn’t seem cruel or mocking. ‘To Scone Abbey, my lady. Sir Robert has need of your service. In five days he will take the throne of Scotland. But he cannot be made without the Earl of Fife.’

  ‘My nephew is in England, in the custody of King Edward.’

  ‘We know this. We need one of his blood to officiate in his absence.’

  Isabel was so stunned by the revelation she almost laughed. Her arms dropped, the tip of the poker banging against the floor. ‘You want me to place the crown on the new king’s head?’ When John of Atholl inclined his head, an icy tide flooded her. ‘My husband would strip the flesh from my bones. Please, Sir John, do not ask me to do this.’

  ‘Sir Robert will protect you, my lady. You will be well cared for in his company, of that I assure you.’ The earl’s eyes went to the side of her face.

  Isabel had no doubt he was looking at the bruise. Ashamed, she started to turn her head so her hair would tumble in front of it, then stopped herself. ‘Do I even have a choice?’

  ‘My orders are to bring you to Scone, willing or not. I would rather it was the former.’

  ‘You will spare my household?’

  ‘You have my word.’

  As Isabel bent and laid the poker on the floor, Agnes cried out behind her. ‘My lady!’

  Leaving the maids and her ashen-faced steward, Isabel walked towards the earl. Moving out into the passage, through the crowd of armed men waiting there, she felt a strange numbness settle over her. As she hea
ded slowly down the passage towards the stairs, past open doors and broken furniture, John of Atholl fell into step beside her, after ordering his men to secure the servants in one of the rooms.

  ‘We’ve been watching your manor. Your husband left earlier today. Where did he go?’

  ‘To Argyll,’ she told him, amazed at how readily the words came. ‘To raise the MacDougalls against Sir Robert.’ Isabel saw Sir John’s face tighten in the flush of torchlight as they descended the stairs.

  ‘And MacDouall?’

  ‘I don’t know. My husband sent him south.’

  Sir John led the way out into the yard, where her husband’s guards had been rounded up. They were kneeling in the mud, hands bound behind their backs. A few were injured. They stared at her as she passed. Some of them called out, their voices strained with anger and confusion. Her husband’s remaining horses had been led out of the stables and were now sent galloping into the night as Atholl’s men whipped at their flanks with the flats of their blades. So no one could follow, she guessed. As Sir John spoke with his knights, leaving her alone in the ring of men, Isabel glimpsed several bodies being dragged into the shadows of a barn.

  ‘It’s a raw night.’

  Isabel started and turned to see a young man behind her. He looked a lot like the earl.

  ‘Here,’ he said, holding out a fur-trimmed cloak, ‘put this on.’

  As the young man placed it gently around her shoulders, Isabel heard him murmur.

  ‘My father will not harm you.’

  ‘David,’ called Atholl, striding over. ‘Mount up. We’re leaving.’

  As the men sheathed their swords and headed for their horses, Isabel felt an urge to weep, but it wasn’t out of fear or sadness. John of Atholl climbed into his saddle and held out his hand to her. She took it, surprised by its strength and warmth, then dug her foot into his stirrup and pushed up, allowing him to haul her up behind him. She sat sideways, her gown cascading down the dusty rump of the horse. Isabel put her arms around Atholl’s waist and held on tight as he spurred out of the yard, followed by his men. As they sped west across the dark fields, the winking lights of her manor fading behind her, the cold March wind stung her face. The tears, for so long frozen inside her, at last began to flow, the green smell of the crops and soil rising all around her.