by Young, Robyn
It would be only after another twenty-two years and by great sacrifice of money and men that Edward finally vanquished Llywelyn, in which time he saw his father beaten, stripped of authority and dignity during the bitter civil war with his barons. On taking the throne, Edward had sworn an oath never to be so dishonoured by any man subject to him. To ensure this he began to expand his borders and consolidate his power, rewarding the faithful with gifts of land in the regions he conquered. In the conquest of Wales, his Round Table was formed and he wrapped his vassals – those whose strength he needed – in the mantles of champions: Gawain and Galahad, Mordred and Perceval, his men bound to him by vows more sacred than fealty, their loyalty fused in the table’s endless circle. But what was once just a tournament guise had become something much greater for Edward. He didn’t just want to be called by the name of a hero of old: he wanted to become the legend itself – Arthur, King of all Britain.
Edward had read Geoffrey of Monmouth’s History of the Kings of Britain and the Prophecies of Merlin, of which the scholar said there were others yet to be translated. Claiming to have found one of these lost texts in a stronghold of his vanquished enemy, Llywelyn ap Gruffudd, the king presented it with great ceremony to the men of his newly fashioned Round Table, shortly after the birth of his son, Edward of Caernarfon. The Last Prophecy was his testimony, his ambition immortalised on parchment, and by it he would unite Britain beneath one crown. Prophecy would spur his men to further his intent, instilling in them a sense of the sacred, beyond the blood and sacrifice of war, the rising taxes and depleted fortunes. But the conflict in Gascony had rumbled on, becoming ever more unpopular, and Edward had seen his power start to slip. It was then that he established the Knights of the Dragon, an elite band of brothers formed of the young bloods at his court; those weaned on tales of Arthur and his knights, those more impressionable than their fathers.
Men, thought Humphrey, like him. He turned the pages of the book, his eyes passing over the images. There was Curtana, the broken sword a symbol of English royal authority, and the Staff of Malachy, the holy relic embodying the spirit of Irish nationhood. There, too, the Stone of Destiny, Scotland’s kingmaker. As he turned to the last pages, he now saw the tiny variations in the stitching that bound them, where new pages had been added. Humphrey hadn’t seen this when he looked that first time, blinded by the brightness of the lie. Reading the lines that predicted the death of King Alexander, he recalled Edward’s breathless last words, there on his deathbed.
‘One life, Humphrey, may God forgive me. One life for the future of our kingdom, a kingdom united, bound in strength.’
Slowly, carefully even, Humphrey tore the pages from the book, one by one. He ripped them into pieces, the words separating, the prophecy unravelling in his hands. When he was left with a heap of shredded parchment, he reached into the bag and pulled out a black box. While the sun’s golden light had faded the glow of firelight had strengthened. It gleamed on the surface of the wood as Humphrey held it up, staring through the fracture in its side, in the depths of which Robert had first seen the truth. Gathering up the box and the torn pages, he crossed to the fire and crouched before it.
Here in this chamber, where his love had died, he fulfilled his promise to her father; the man to whom he had given half his life. He would keep his silence, even from the men of the Round Table who still believed in the lie. He would bear the king’s burden alone. But it was the last thing he would do in his name. As he watched the pages flame and the box begin to smoulder, Humphrey felt it turn to ash inside him, but with this death came a strange feeling of freedom. Staring into the heart of the fire, he had a sense of his own destiny stretching before him.
Chapter 33
Westminster Abbey, England, 1307 AD
It was late October, four days before the Feast of All Souls. Silvery morning sunlight slanted through the high windows of Westminster Abbey, shining on the pillars and arches, glowing in the stone faces of saints and angels. Hazy layers of incense and candle smoke shifted in the air over the heads of the host of earls and knights, countesses and clerks, bishops and squires, all cloaked in mourning black. Many had come from across England, from Cornwall and Lancaster, Pembroke and Lincoln. Others had journeyed further still, from Scotland, Ireland, Wales, France and the Low Countries. Above them, the great vault of Westminster Abbey soared, one hundred feet of echoing space filled with the rising voices of the choir.
Edward of Caernarfon watched in silence as three canons passed slowly around the ornate, wheeled hearse that had borne his father’s body from St Paul’s. As they sprinkled holy water across the coffin, which was draped with the dragon banner, Anthony Bek, the aged Bishop of Durham, intoned the Requiem Mass, his deep voice resounding across the silent multitude. Edward’s gaze moved over the men and women crowded in around him. Humphrey de Bohun was there with his nephew, Henry. Close by were Aymer de Valence, Robert Clifford and Guy de Beauchamp, along with Ralph de Monthermer, still in mourning for the loss of his wife, Edward’s eldest sister, Joan, who had succumbed to a summer fever. Ralph’s stepson, Gilbert, stood stiffly at his side, recently made Earl of Gloucester in his place. Seeing many of the barons hanging their heads in respect or grief and the tears glistening on the cheeks of Queen Marguerite and her ladies-in-waiting, Edward realised that he himself felt little, except relief.
In July, when Humphrey arrived with news of his father’s passing, Edward had taken it in with cool acceptance. Heading north to claim his father’s body, he was proclaimed king in Carlisle Castle, whereupon he had taken control of the army. After accepting the homage of loyalist Scottish barons and leaving the country in the hands of the English garrisons, Edward, Prince of Wales, Duke of Gascony and, now, King of England, led his men south in the wake of his father’s corpse. Aymer de Valence and others had been incensed by his decision not to continue the campaign against Robert Bruce, but Edward refused to bow to their repeated requests. For the time being, he was done with the north – done with his father’s endless war. There were other, more pressing things on his mind, in the form of his coronation and forthcoming marriage to Isabella of France, and, most crucially, the return of his love.
Edward glanced at Thomas of Lancaster, standing close by. While everyone else’s attention was on the coffin or cast downward in prayer, his cousin was staring straight at him. For one disturbing moment, Edward saw, in the earl’s grey eyes, some echo of his father, before the young man averted his gaze. Edward mollified himself by anticipating the look on Thomas’s face when Piers Gaveston returned to the court. He had already sent for the knight, in exile in Gascony. Soon, he would be back at his side.
As Bishop Bek finished the Mass and a tide of amens flooded the abbey, Edward looked towards the screen that hid the shrine of the Confessor. There, in the place where the coronation chair that enclosed the Stone of Destiny stood ready for him, a tomb now awaited his father. Through gaps in the carved screen, he could just make it out. Surrounded by ornate gilt and bronze sepulchres, adorned with gleaming effigies, the open tomb was a great hulk of black marble, so dark it seemed to soak up all the light around it. It was his one commitment to his father’s dying wishes.
Years ago, before he was born, his mother and father had reburied the bones of Arthur and Guinevere in an elaborate ceremony at Glastonbury Abbey. His father had ordered the remains of the once and future king to be interred in a plain black marble tomb, in the likeness of which he later fashioned the box for his precious Last Prophecy. Now, Edward Longshanks would be delivered into a resting place of the same design, where he would spend eternity. King Arthur, even in death.
Castle Tioram, Scotland, 1307 AD
Robert watched from the battlements as four more galleys sailed into the mouth of Loch Moidart to join the scores of vessels moored in a sheltered inlet, overlooked by Castle Tioram. The island on which the castle stood was linked to the shore by a causeway of rock and sand, only accessible at low tide. The banks beyond were crawling with
men. Their numbers had been growing steadily through the autumn, as more answered his call to arms and made their way north to join him at Christiana MacRuarie’s remote mainland stronghold. Many had come from the west coast, but in the past few weeks others had arrived from Wales and Ireland, word of his victory over the English at Loudoun Hill spreading far and wide.
With news of King Edward’s death, received among Robert’s men with relief and great jubilation, the prophecy had taken on a life of its own. What started as a murmur had become a shout. Now, with these last few galley-loads, his army would be almost three thousand strong. The war with England had paused, reports coming in over the summer that the king’s men were packing up and moving south across the border. English garrisons still held the castles of Stirling, Edinburgh and Roxburgh, and occupied the towns of Perth, Dumfries, Aberdeen and Dundee, but it was clear their new king did not have the same drive as his father to continue the fight, as James Stewart had hoped and Humphrey de Bohun had implied. It was in this pause that Robert had turned his eye north.
The Comyns and their allies had made their continued aggression towards him clear with pledges of loyalty to King Edward II. Among their number was David of Atholl. The news, when it came, had been a blow to Robert, still stung by the revelation of Alexander Seton’s betrayal, but it had helped him cement his decision. Food and supplies had been gathered from Rhum and Eigg, spears had been made, mail cleaned and blades whetted. He was ready. It was time to break out of the western strip of coast he had been confined to – time to confront his Scottish enemies, and clear the way for his return to the throne.
Hearing footsteps on the steps behind him, Robert looked round to see his brother appear on the walkway.
Edward was holding up a roll of parchment. ‘One of our men has just come from Turnberry. He had this for you.’
Robert took it quickly, seeing the seal on the bottom. He had been expecting this for months. Unrolling it, he scanned the brief message inside. After a moment, he closed his eyes and murmured a prayer.
‘Well?’
‘It is done. Marjorie and Elizabeth are safe.’
Edward nodded. He grasped Robert’s shoulder with a tight smile. ‘It seems you were right about Humphrey. I am sorry I doubted you.’
Robert said nothing, his eyes catching on the last lines of the message.
I have kept my word. Now you must keep your silence.
Crumpling the parchment in his fist, Robert looked over at the men of his army, crowding along the banks, their encampment brightened by the colours of many banners. His gaze moved across the arms of Malcolm of Lennox, Neil Campbell, Thomas Randolph and Gilbert de la Hay, Angus MacDonald and Lachlan MacRuarie, all of them brought closer this past year, their brotherhood forged in loss and in victory. Raising his eyes beyond their ranks, over the wooded hills that blazed copper in the late autumn sun, Robert fixed on the ridges of the distant mountains, glazed white with snow. Beyond those peaks lay the Great Glen – doorway to the heartland of his enemies. Inside, he felt the wheel begin to shift, and turn.
PART 5
1308–1309 AD
Since then your kingdom was divided against itself; since the rage of civil discord, and the fumes of envy, have darkened your minds, since your pride would not suffer you to pay obedience to one king; you see therefore your kingdom made desolate . . . and your houses falling upon one another . . .
The History of the Kings of Britain, Geoffrey of Monmouth
Chapter 34
Slioch, Scotland, 1308 AD
Robert sighed as Christiana kissed his neck. He felt the heat from her body as she lay on him, her weight pressing him into the powdery sand. Sweat ran down his cheeks into his ears and hair, prickling on his scalp. Eyes closed, he listened to her breaths against his skin, whispering like waves on the shore.
‘My lord.’
At her voice he saw her staring down at him, her pale green eyes like two pools filled with liquid light. Twists of her copper hair tumbled over her shoulders to brush his face. She was laughing, but he didn’t know why. Behind her, the sky was on fire. Turning his head, Robert saw droplets of red in the sand beside him. Blood. Alarm flooded him.
‘Christiana.’
He tried to move her off him, but she was already gone. He could see her standing at the edge of the waves, looking out to sea, a small coffin raised up on a dais beside her, full of flickering fire. There was a figure inside it, but he couldn’t see who. He struggled to sit. Although Christiana had gone, the weight of her remained. Sweat poured off him and he longed to plunge himself into the blue waters, but the blood caught his attention again. Now he saw it was a trail, leading away from him along the beach. Beyond, in the distance, the hills blushed in the sunset, their curves and swells like the forms of sleeping women. Robert followed the line of droplets, his feet crunching in the sand, which wasn’t sand any more, but snow.
Ahead, a man was kneeling in the expanse of white, his back to him. He wore a red surcoat, which pooled around him like the blood. There was a shield in the snow beside him with three sheaves of wheat emblazoned on it. The man was John Comyn. The trail of blood now made a horrible sense. As Robert approached, foreboding rising in him, the man staggered to his feet and turned. There was a dagger protruding from his ribs. His hands rose to grasp at it. Then, as Robert’s eyes moved up to the man’s face, he realised it wasn’t John Comyn standing there. It was his grandfather. The old lord thrust a finger towards him, his dark eyes filling with accusation.
Edward Bruce looked round as his brother cried out. Robert lay on a litter piled with blankets and furs, his head twisting from side to side. His face gleamed in the lantern’s yellow glow, oily with sweat which tracked lines through the dirt and crusts of blood that had sealed over recent wounds. Nes crouched beside him.
Edward glanced to the opening of the makeshift tent, formed from sheets of waxed canvas strung up on the branches of the trees. ‘Christ, if the men hear him like this . . . ?’ He pushed a hand through his hair, which had been stuck to his scalp from the tight encasement of his coif and helm, rarely removed these past days. ‘We cannot give any more of them cause to desert.’ Edward’s voice was thick with bitterness. Their campaign had begun in force and victory had opened her arms to them, eager and willing. Drunk on blood they had ravaged the lands of their enemies; a reckoning long sought. But then the sickness had come, stripping them of their strength and draining their resolve. The Black Comyn had seized upon their weakness, coming at them fierce and hard.
‘We should withdraw,’ suggested Gilbert. His face was drawn and dark circles shadowed his eyes. There was a cut along his left cheek, crudely stitched, where an arrow had grazed him during the attack on Inverness Castle weeks earlier. ‘I say again, let us head south and find shelter until the king is well. Then we can return in strength.’
‘There isn’t time,’ Neil Campbell told him flatly. ‘Comyn will be on us before we can rouse the men. Many are still ailing. We cannot show the earl our backs. Not now.’
Edward nodded. ‘We hold a strong position here. Comyn’s cavalry couldn’t breach our lines on the Christ Mass, when the sickness in our ranks was at its worst.’
‘His infantry may have better luck,’ warned Malcolm of Lennox, looking between Gilbert and Edward. ‘And without our king to lead us?’
They all looked at Robert, sprawled on the litter, drifting in and out of consciousness. The strident blare of a horn rent the air outside.
Edward pushed his way out through the canvas sheets, followed by the others. The woods were crowded with men, splashes of colour from tunics and cloaks daubing the monochrome landscape of bare trees and snow. Many had risen at the horn’s blast, donning helms and snatching up shields. Others, incapacitated from the fever that had swept through the army, while blizzards besieged them and lack of food debilitated them, lay prone by campfires, glancing anxiously around them as their comrades moved into action. The horn blared again, grooms soothing the horses tethere
d together in a clearing. The animals were part of the plunder they had taken from Inverness, before the castle was razed.
Edward saw Cormac, hastening towards him. His foster-brother’s red hair was the only thing of colour about him, his face blanched by the cold. Thomas Randolph was at his side, his pale blue eyes wide with fear.
‘They’re coming!’
Edward set off through the trees. Gilbert and the others went with him. ‘How many?’
‘I’d say the scouts were right,’ replied Cormac. ‘Two thousand.’
Edward cursed. When the Black Comyn had challenged them a week ago he’d had less than half that number. With his cavalry unable to penetrate their position, well defended on a wooded knoll surrounded by boggy fields, the Earl of Buchan’s archers had resorted to exchanging volleys with their own bowmen over the course of the Christ Mass. Each side had picked off only a few dozen of their opponents before the Black Comyn retreated from the field, leading his men back to Banff. There had been deep relief among Robert’s forces at the enemy’s withdrawal, the respite offering them and their king a chance to recover, but while many of the men had since shrugged off the sickness, Robert had only worsened. There were no healing herbs or roots to be found in the frozen wasteland and no amount of prayers had helped him. The mood among the men sank further when the scouts had ridden in two hours ago with word that their enemy was returning in strength.
