“You should at the least try the custard,” Pembroke urged. “It is the king’s favorite dish. Mine as well.”
Sir Robert Clifford of Westmorland, seated next to Pembroke, leaned forward. I could smell his drunken breath as he slurred, “Too sweet, if I may say.”
“And you, Clifford,” Pembroke remarked dryly, as he dipped his fingers in a bowl of scented water and dried them on his napkin, “are too full of drink to hold anything down until the morning. A perfect waste of fine food.”
I smiled wanly and brought a morsel of food to my mouth. I swallowed it, tasting nothing. “The cook is to be commended. I regret that... I was stricken with some ailment of the stomach while in Essex. It lingers yet, much to my discomfort. Everything runs clean through.”
“Pity.” Pembroke tilted his head of silver-black hair at me. His eyes, dark as a Saracen’s, flashed at me above a curious grin. “I hope you improve soon.”
Short, with little hands and small features, Pembroke compensated for his stature with both cunning and resolve. He was a shrewd man, one I would have felt security in had he fought at my side, yet one I would have faltered in courage before, had I to face him as an enemy. Longshanks had greater faith in no man than him. And he returned it with a depth of loyalty the king reveled wholly in. For that, I feared him, feared for my life even as I sat there as an honored guest in the king’s hall.
Pembroke knew. He must. Perhaps they all knew and this was some contrived spectacle in which to reveal my betrayal. Would they lash me to a horse’s behind and drag me through the streets of London, as they had done to Wallace, jeers and rotten fruit flung at me while the cobbles scraped the flesh from my bones? What twisted torture would the king concoct to draw out my death? Or would I languish in a lightless dungeon, rats nibbling at my flesh until I was nothing but bones and sinew? I preferred a swift death on the battlefield to either.
Between the two long side tables, the juggler flailed knives in circles through the air and balanced a long sword in the center of his palm by its point. Little dogs sailed through fiery hoops and jesters tumbled and mocked the King of France to tides of laughter. A tightening circle formed around the prince and Gaveston, as eyes darted boldly to me. I watched as if in a dream, or rather a nightmare, and weighed when to make my exit – afraid to do so too soon, more afraid to wait. As I glanced around, I noticed Clifford had disappeared.
To the left of King Edward sat his queen, Marguerite, her hair piled high and woven with jewels, her youthful body enveloped in a gown of pale cream and gold. With her blank eyes, her plain mouth and her small chin bobbing at every word that passed over the king’s teeth, she looked more ornament than regal consort. The king flipped his fingers at me in salutation. I returned a nod and as I lifted my hand to reach blindly for my goblet, it toppled and a river of blood-red wine poured over a field of snowy linen.
“Earl?” Pembroke laid a hand on my upper arm. “You look pale. Perhaps you should take to your bed after all?”
An opening, at last. I pinched the bridge of my nose between clammy fingers. “Aye,” I breathed. “Advice I will take.” I dabbed at the stained tablecloth with a grease-smeared kerchief and pushed my chair away.
As I made toward the door, a voice cut above the clamor.
“What, Lord Robert?” The prince brought his drink to his lips and took a long draught. “Leaving so early?”
I bowed. “To bed, my lord, with a disagreeable stomach, unfortunately.”
He sauntered toward me, his goblet stem pinched between his fingertips. “Well, if you think the festivities will cease without you, you are gravely mistaken.” He waved a delicate hand in the air. “Play on, minstrels! Something less melancholy. We grow weary of ballads. My stepmother requests a dance.”
For a moment, Marguerite’s face shone like the sun, but as the music struck anew her husband merely sank deeper in his chair. He was too brimming with wine to keep step in a dance and too feeble yet in the bones to even rise from his chair. The corners of her little mouth plunged in disappointment. She shot a pitiful glance at her stepson. Scowling, the prince set his goblet down and bowed shallowly before Marguerite. Her smile watery beneath painted eyes, she rose and joined him.
As I backed away in retreat, I caught eyes fleetingly with Ralph de Monthermer. I prayed he would prove true and deliver me warning in time to be gone from Windsor and out of England for good. Next to Ralph, Gilbert de Clare – so beautiful he would have rivaled the fairest lady in the court – hugged a deep tankard and gazed dreamily into the midst of the dance. My heart faltered as Gilbert’s face turned my way. He knows, he knows. They all know. But his eyes lacked focus; his lips were tilted in a drunken smile.
I wove my way through a snake pit of bodies, as dancers clasped hands and twined in and out across the floor. Drumbeats followed me into the corridor, pounding in my head, growing louder as they echoed through the emptiness. I shuffled through the dimly lit passageway. Two yellow, writhing shadows reared up before me. I pulled back behind the dark refuge of a column, listening for voices, watching for the glint of weapons. But all I heard nearby was the heavy panting of two lovers, stealing a moment of sin. I hid there for too long a time as they groped, their clothes rustling against one another, the wet smack of kisses eliciting groans of pleasure from the woman. Her whispers carried through the dank air, a heavy French accent – one of the queen’s maids perhaps, followed by the hushed, drawling murmur of her lover.
Cursed devil, would I be trapped here forever? How long before the damning evidence arrives? Did the king have it already? Or was Comyn merely bluffing, pitting the king and I against one another?
I shivered as cold beads of sweat dampened my forehead. Further into the shadows, I shrank. The stones of the wall pressed hard against my rigid back. Perhaps I should just scurry past them? They might not even notice. Then I heard the lady’s breath catch, the man grunting as he probed clumsily beneath her raised skirts. Good God, could they have chosen a less discreet place?
“Ah... ahhh, sooo sweet, love.”
The voice had a familiar hiss to it. Creeping forward, I hugged the column and there in the dead end of the corridor adjacent to the main stair was Clifford, his buttocks bared, taking the willing French handmaiden while standing. A marvel, considering how drunk he was. Her pale hands kneaded at his sweaty flesh while her mouth hung open, stifling the cries she must have longed to release. That was not his wife and the maid herself was recently wed to a lesser knight from Cornwall. I realized I was in no danger of being revealed by either of them.
“Your pardon, my lord.” I stepped forward into the wavering rushlight. “I do not wish to interrupt. Carry on.”
The lady gasped when he tore away from her. I brushed past them with a shaming glance and plunged up the stairs. Behind me, I heard her begging and moments later they were going at it again – this time more arduous and less abashed, eager to peak in the ecstasy of each other’s flesh, mindless of the vows they had spoken on some other forgotten day with some now forgotten mate.
I reached the door to my chamber, I looked down the length of the dark corridor and keened my ears. The animal sounds of Clifford and his vixen had ceased. Far, far away, I could still hear the strumming of strings and the rhythm of the tabor. I nudged the door open. Then it was flung wide by Gerald and he yanked me in. A single tallow candle resting on the window sill lit the room.
“I was beginning to wonder about you,” Gerald admonished with a grimace as he drew the bar across the door.
“Ralph’s man?” I queried.
“Come and gone.” He held out his hands and dropped into my palms the spurs and a handful of coins. “You had no sooner left than the king, in drunken state, poured out his intention to arrest you as soon as the evidence was brought forth.”
Betrayed by Comyn, one of my own.
“Your cloak, m’lord.” Gerald held out my hooded, fur-lined cloak as I stepped beneath it. With deft fingers, he fastened it in a single motion.
“To horse, Gerald. It will be a hard ride to Lochmaben... if we get there at all.”
“They are ready and waiting.”
“Whatever would I do without you?”
“Don’t think it, my lord. I will be with you until we are too old and decrepit to remember any of this.”
I pounded him hard on the shoulder. Together, we stole through the passageways, avoiding all who had drifted from the drunken revelry of the great hall, across the gaping courtyard beneath a brittle winter sky, studded with starlight, and to the stables, where our horses waited with steaming breath.
Ch. 23
Robert the Bruce – Lochmaben, 1306
Five days from London to Lochmaben, day and night on a lathered horse, February wind biting at my bones. Riding so long and so hard I thought I would never see the end of the road. Two more days while I sent Nigel and Thomas to Dalswinton with an urgent message, asking Comyn to meet me at Greyfriar’s Kirk near Dumfries, where the council was holding sessions.
I drifted between wakeful sleep and restless pacing. Long, vacant nights wrought with muddied thoughts; short, dreary days through which I floated in a numbed haze. I kept from the hall, confining myself to my chambers, robbing Elizabeth of sleep as I wore at the planks. Back and forth, back and forth. I moved across the floor in angry, chopping strides. Turned, pulled at my hair, muttered curses.
When she could stand it no more, Elizabeth bolted from the bed and threw herself at my feet. Raising a face reddened by weeping, she clamped her arms about my legs. “Robert! I beg you – for all that is sacred, do not go.”
“Do you know what he has done? Do you know?” White with fury, I could not meet her pleading eyes. Little more than a week ago, I had wished for nothing more than to be at home holding her in my arms, renewing our love with every heartbeat, every gentle touch. But now, even my devotion to my wife had been thrust aside, my thoughts consumed with devices and schemes for revenge. My anger was so excessive wee Marjorie had run from me in tears that morning when she asked me to watch a trick she had taught her dog and I had exploded at her.
“No, Comyn will never change,” I said. “Why did I think that he would?”
Elizabeth clawed at my arms and said my name over and over. Finally, she buried her face against my thigh, her breath blowing damp and hot with each anguished sob.
“I did not think at all, apparently.” I tore myself from her and sank down into a thinly cushioned chair. The peat brazier next to it was stone cold. “Or maybe I thought... greed would overrule his hatred. Now I see differently. I am done with thinking. Done with Comyn. Enough of the bloody, life-sucking bastard. May his deceit consume him. And may the flames of hell melt his flesh from his bones for all eternity.”
She struggled to her feet. Her blanket hung loosely from her shoulders, then dropped to the floor as she approached me. She knelt before me on the cold floor and pressed her hands upon my knees. “And what will you do, Robert, when you see him? Avenge yourself? To what end? How will that serve this country or your dreams of a throne?”
I looked away. “No, Elizabeth, I have turned a blind eye long enough. He laid his hand in mine and swore... swore alliance. Brother to brother. Scot to Scot. And it was all false. All of it. Every word, every breath, every drop of ink. All a trap. A lie. A damnable lie.”
She pulled back, her hands clasped as though in prayer. “But what will you do? Robert, this is not who you are. You are too angry now to –”
“Will I ever be less? How many times can I allow him to attack me and do nothing? No, this must be dealt with now. Let him admit to his brazen pack of lies. With God as his witness, all will be out between us.”
I had been betrayed – my life offered up for the gallows. I brushed her away and went from her – the one person who should have been able to stop me.
But my mind was made up. I would confront and condemn him and vow, then and there, that we would be mortal enemies.
And on my honor, I would let him walk away, with his life. Then, the battle would begin.
Greyfriar’s Kirk, 1306
I waited in the sanctuary of God’s house for the brutal traitor, Comyn. Endless, agonizing hours I waited. Every muscle taut. My temples throbbing incessantly. I paced in monotonous rhythm outside the church, up and down the icy steps, searching within and then down the road for any sign of him. Above, a crescent moon pierced a black dome, where stars glittered like diamonds in the echoing depths of a lightless cave.
“He will not come.” Nigel wrapped his cloak tight around him. His breath hung in a white cloud before his pale mouth. “The day is gone. The hour long past.”
Thomas leaned against the shoulder of his sorrel horse and scratched at the flecks of mud on its hide. “There’s an inn next road over. Warm fire. Drink. Women.” He grinned boyishly to himself.
“I’m going inside,” I told them.
Nigel lurched forward, but I shook my head to stay him. His piety and my ire would mix as well as water and hot oil. I motioned to my brother-in-law, Christopher, to follow me. Long of arm and keen of eye, he knew how to use his fists as well as his weapons. I had seen him split an Englishman in two with one swipe of his blade at a full gallop. More prudent to have him watching my back where Comyn was concerned than my future priest-brother.
“But what if the coward comes with a host of twenty or thirty or more?” piped Roger Kirkpatrick, a friend of Thomas’s.
“That’s why you’re waiting out here,” I told him.
James Lindsay, who stood next to Roger, thumbed the hilt of his dagger and nodded his willingness. They had all been innocent visitors to Lochmaben when I had stormed in there in a monstrous wrath. No friends of Comyn’s, they had accompanied me to the church, eager to see what would unfold, and I hoped to protect my back. Nigel and Thomas stood mute in judgment, probably realizing no good would come of this.
The cold hush of a winter evening cloaked the world. “Send him within, when he arrives,” I said bitterly. “The words I would have with him are meant for his and God’s ears alone.”
I lit a dozen candles upon the altar, said prayers for the souls of Isabella, my father and mother... and Wallace. Then I sank down next to a stone column and fixed my eyes on the Holy Crucifix.
Sleep had crept upon me – although I do not remember my eyelids drifting shut – when at last the hinges of the door creaked. The candles were burnt to stubs. Slow, heavy footfalls like dying heartbeats pounded closer. I knew without looking that he had finally come. And with a purpose no less than mine.
Christopher, who stood guard vigilantly to the side of the altar, narrowed his eyes. He shifted his arm beneath his cloak.
“I never thought the day would come,” I said aloud, without turning to look, a smirk of irony tainting my words, “when John Comyn, Lord of Badenoch, former Guardian of Scotland, would sell his soul to the King of England.”
His steps ceased. Another pair, more halting and heavier, followed. Slowly, I rose from the floor, still facing the altar. The cold of the column seeped into my palm as I braced against it. My ire, which had been smoldering with each drawn breath, now erupted into flames as I turned around. Behind Comyn stood his uncle, Sir Robert Comyn – a man well into his years, but one who had seen more brawls and battles than I.
“What? Bruce, I confess there is madness in your eyes and words,” Red Comyn drawled. “What do you want with me and why here? I have business to attend to at Dumfries and no time for your babbling.”
The light within was dim, wavering streaks of orange cast by short wicked candles. Comyn’s countenance gradually drained of color. He stood tensely, arms stiff at his sides, not daring another step.
Everything poured out of me – every drop of hatred, every shred of injustice – everything crying out for revenge. Reason was as remote from my conscience as the stars from the earth. I moved into the aisle to face him squarely. The floorboards groaned ominously beneath my shifting weight. From the corner of my eye, I saw
Christopher inch forward.
“Letters were found when they captured Wallace. You linked me to them. Told Longshanks of our pact. Sold my name to the very devil himself and all... all for what? Spite? Greed? Certainly not glory! Even less for love of your country.” I reached wide, lost for understanding. “Is it even remotely possible you could put aside your hatred of me and my kin for the well being of this land and its people? Does any of that matter to you? Or do you despise me so completely you would court your own ruin to see me dead?”
He tugged at his riding gloves finger by finger as calmly as if he had heard not a word of my unleashed fury. Then he tossed them to the ground and swaggered toward me, thrusting his big, overfed belly before him. “Maybe I did it for sheer humor? Do you think I cherished every day I was forced to sit beside you in council meetings while you spewed out your lofty lineage? You call yourself in the right whether you stand across the battlefield from Longshanks or beside him. Who is the traitor, I ask? Bloody whoreson Bruces – no better than any of the rest of us, though you think yourself gods. Gladly would I burn in hell alongside you for all eternity... if I could keep you from the throne.”
With a macabre smile on his twisted mouth, he charged at me. I saw the glint of a dagger and instinctively drew out my sword. I held it straight out, but only to warn him off. I thought surely that at any moment he would step aside, pull back, stop, something. But he kept coming and then... my sword plunged deep into his big, round belly. The slurp of a blade parting soft flesh mingled with Comyn’s grunt. His knife clattered to the floor. The shock of his weight slammed up my arm. I let go of the hilt. Comyn tottered, jaw agape, and then crumpled. He clutched at the double-edged blade with bloodied fingers, too consumed in agony to cry out for help.
The Crown in the Heather (The Bruce Trilogy) Page 19
