by Jack Whyte
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Author’s Note
Prologue
Book One: Encounters 1284
Chapter One. The Countess
Chapter Two. The Boy
Chapter Three. The Kings
Chapter Four. Meetings
Book Two: The Noble Robert 1290
Chapter Five. A Laying on of Hands
Chapter Six. The Lairds of Lochmaben
Chapter Seven. The Patriarch
Chapter Eight. A Ride to Perth
Chapter Nine. Family Ties
Chapter Ten. Alarums
Book Three: Siblings 1292
Chapter Eleven. A Surfeit of Roberts
Chapter Twelve. Silver Spurs
Chapter Thirteen. The Dangers of Ideas
Book Four: The English Lordling 1295–1297
Chapter Fourteen. The Politics of Love
Chapter Fifteen. The Politics of Friendship
Chapter Sixteen. Natural Wrath
Chapter Seventeen. The French Physician
Chapter Eighteen. Enchantments and Intrigues
Chapter Nineteen. Confessions
Chapter Twenty. The Earl of Carrick’s Idyll
Chapter Twenty-One. Kings’ Pleasures
Chapter Twenty-Two. A Brief and Distant War
Chapter Twenty-Three. Lochmaben Revisited
Chapter Twenty-Four. Death and Resurrection
Chapter Twenty-Five. Lessons in Loyalty
Epilogue
Glossary
Also by Jack Whyte
Copyright
This book, like every other I have written, is dedicated to my wife, Beverley, for who and what she is.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
On a beautiful autumn morning in the early stages of writing this book, I found myself sitting in the sunshine gazing at a portrait of the middle-aged Robert the Bruce, King of Scots, and remembering two grand old men I had known as a child. They were brothers, Edward and Michael O’Connell, and their youngest sister was my maternal grandmother. They were both fierce-looking, hawk-like men in their fifties, tall and gaunt and broad and stern, with big ears, prominent, beaky noses and a proud, independent air about them. The portrait of Bruce reminded me forcibly of both of them, not merely the physical elements of their heads and faces but their unyielding expressions of determination and uncompromising strength of what used to be known as character.
Those two upright old men shaped me when I was a boy too young to be aware of it, and one of them, the one I came to know best, became the model on whom I built one of my earliest protagonists, Caius Cornelius Britannicus of “A Dream of Eagles.”
On that particular day in 2010, though, it was the elder brother, Edward, whom I could see in the face of Bruce, and as I sat there wondering why, and why the thought should have occurred to me, I experienced one of those quasi-mystical flashes of understanding and enlightenment that is known as an epiphany.
I had been wrestling for weeks with an anomaly that, though seemingly trivial at first notice, had nevertheless perplexed me to the point at which it had become intolerable and was seriously affecting my approach to my story. It had occurred when I realized, almost incidentally, that in reading everything I could find on the Bruce I had become aware that academic historians (not speculative fiction writers like myself) were virtually unanimous in admitting, to varying degrees, that they were at a loss to explain why Robert the Bruce, at several crucial and seminal times in his life, behaved as he had, apparently in defiance of all logic. In each of those instances (and all the historians agree on what they were), his decisions and subsequent actions appeared to lack an identifiable purpose or an attributable motivation.
And then I saw those grand old men and saw that Bruce, too, had his exemplar.
Bruce was the seventh of his name, the seventh consecutive Lord Robert Bruce. The fifth of those was Robert Bruce of Annandale in southern Scotland, known as Bruce the Competitor, because in the aftermath of the death of King Alexander III and then of his heir, the seven-year-old princess known as the Maid of Norway, Bruce of Annandale had one of the two strongest claims to the throne of Scotland and came within a coin’s toss of being crowned King of Scots. But the astonishing thing was that, in an age when most men were dead by the age of forty, the old Competitor was seventy at the time of the competition. He was one of the greatest and most admired nobles of his time, not only in Scotland but throughout Christendom—for Europe, as we know it today, lay years in the future. He bore the royal blood of several countries, including England and France, and lived a life of unimpeachable honour and integrity. He must have been formidable, but he has been entirely eclipsed by the fame and the glory of his grandson, Robert the Bruce, King of Scots, and history has largely forgotten Bruce the Competitor. His grandson Robert, though, could never have forgotten him, reared as he was at the fierce old warrior’s knee and eager to learn everything the old man had to teach him. Therein lay my epiphany that morning. Considering those two, pupil and teacher, and knowing the tenacity, nobility, integrity and strength of purpose of the elder, how could anyone doubt or question the decisions the grandson made at any stage of his brilliant career, when they were underpinned and reinforced by the lessons learned at the old man’s knee?
And so I started again, at a new beginning, and went looking for the story of the boy who would be king.
Jack Whyte
Kelowna, British Columbia
July 2012
PROLOGUE
Thursday, May 16, 1297
Robert Bruce awoke in a foul humour on the day that was to change his life. He had no inkling that it was to be a day of days, but he was acutely aware from the moment he opened his eyes that he would be glad when it was over, for he had no illusions about the unpleasantness of what lay ahead for him that day, and the hissing drumbeat of heavy rain on the roof of his tent in the pre-dawn darkness seemed to set the tone for what was to come.
“Fires are a’ oot an’ everythin’s arse deep in mud, so there nae hot toddy for ye this mornin’.” Thomas Beg’s rumbling voice came from the darkness beyond the foot of the narrow cot and was followed by a muffled clank of metal from the firebox. “Shite! It’s nearly out. Haud still now and let me get a light.”
Bruce lay unmoving in the darkness and thought about rolling out of bed, then relaxed and forced himself to ignore the noise of the rain, listening instead to the underlying sounds of his manservant tinkering with the firebox, and picturing the huge man blowing on the embers as he fed them gently with wisps of dried peat moss, coaxing them into flame.
“There! That’s got the bugger.”
A tiny halo of light sprang up in the pitch-blackness and grew steadily stronger. The metal door of the firebox clanked softly as Thomas Beg set the device carefully on the ground by his knees, grunting in concentration as he worked. Bruce waited, visualizing the care with which the big man would be extending a candle towards the tiny flame inside the box, then seeing the result immediately as the wick caught fire and sp
rang into life.
“God-cursed, pishin’ rain.” The big man rose quietly to his feet, one hand holding the candle while the other cupped the flame protectively, then moved cautiously to where a second candle stood on the small table beside Bruce’s bed. Moments later the light from both wicks flooded the small tent, and Bruce pushed himself up on one elbow.
“Early,” he mumbled, scrubbing at his eyes with his free hand.
“Early’s what ye wanted, was it no’?” Thomas Beg was looming above him, looking down with a frown.
“Aye, it was, and I thank you. How long have you been up?”
“Long enough to see it’s been a whore o’ a night and it’s gaun to be a whore o’ a day, forbye. There’s no’ a fire left burnin’ in the whole camp. If I hadna thought to bank the fire in the box afore I went to bed, we’d be stumblin’ aboot like blind men. And rain? I’ve never heard the like o’ it. Woke me up, it was comin’ doon that hard. An’ ye know I dinna wake up easy or often. But ye’d best be up yersel’, gin ye want to be ready afore that whore o’ an Englishman comes out o’ his tent. Mind yer feet, noo.”
“Hmm. I’m up.” Bruce threw back his blanket and swung his legs over the edge of the cot, then flinched and hissed, lifting his feet hurriedly at the shock of the chill groundwater that instantly soaked into his thick stockings.
“I warned ye.” Thomas Beg shook his head and handed him his heavy boots, then stood watching as his earl struggled into them, forcing his wet stockings into place and then lacing the boots up tightly before he lurched to his feet, shivering as he tugged at the long, quilted undercoat and drawers he had worn to bed.
“I need the latrine,” Bruce murmured.
“Wait till ye go ootside, then, and wear your cloak,” his companion said as the earl went to the tent flaps and held them open for a moment before shrugging into a foul-weather wool cloak that hung from a peg there.
Thomas Beg watched as Bruce stepped outside, and listened to the soggy sounds of the earl’s boots in the grass until they faded into the rain-soaked night. He quickly set about folding and rolling Bruce’s bedding. It was a task he could do in his sleep and he did it mindlessly, rolling and tucking and strapping until he had made a tightly compact bundle, then folding the trestle legs of the light, sturdy campaign cot and setting it on its side for collection by the camp crew. He poured water from the jug into the washbowl and laid a rough towel ready on the bedside table. Then stepped to the T-shaped wooden frame that held Bruce’s armour and took down a belted pair of mailed leggings.
He was holding the leggings spread and ready when the earl stepped back inside, his head bent as he fumbled with the lacings at his crotch before he raised his arms to allow Thomas to feed the belt of the leggings around his waist. The earl buckled and cinched it tight and turned his back to allow his man to fasten the straps that held the leggings tightly in place from mid-thigh to ankles, then wriggled until he felt the heavy garment settle comfortably. When he was satisfied with the feel of it, he bent over the bowl on the table and rinsed his face and eyes, scooping water over his short-cropped hair and rubbing it into his scalp and the back of his neck before reaching for the towel. He wiped his eyes first and then held both ends as he scrubbed the nape of his neck from side to side vigorously with the rough cloth before dragging it down over his wet crown and drying his face and hands.
“There,” he said. “Better. Never fails. No matter how cold and miserable you are, a cold douse and a rough towel on the back of your neck will warm you up.”
“Aye, so I’ve heard ye say … Every mornin’.”
Bruce managed his first smile of the day as he turned to face his man, who was now holding out the chain-mail hauberk he would wear over the thick under-tunic he had slept in.
“Let’s get ye into this and then we’ll eat,” the big man growled.
“Eat? Eat what, in this weather? Wet grass?”
“Sheep like it. Come awa now.”
They worked together in silence, both of them frowning in concentration as Bruce shrugged awkwardly into the bulky, confining garment, thrusting his head through the neck opening, then struggling to insert his arms before pulling and hauling until the iron-heavy body and mailed skirts fell into place. A man could dress himself in a mailed hauberk unaided, but it was a sullen, thankless task, and most preferred to work at it in pairs, sharing the difficulty. Thomas Beg, over years of working with Bruce, had developed a knack of settling the job quickly, and Bruce was grateful for his skill. Thomas himself preferred to have his huge arms free of encumbrance when he swung the heavy axe that was his primary weapon, and wore only a short-sleeved mail shirt beneath his leather jerkin. His only concession to armouring himself below the waist was a thick set of bull-hide thigh coverings, strapped to cover front and rear and reinforced with riveted, overlapping strips of steel. The boots he wore were similar to Bruce’s own, made by the same boot maker but reinforced, like his thigh greaves, with more of the steel strips that were strong enough to repel a swung blade.
Bruce waited patiently while Thomas deftly snugged the straps that held the hauberk fastened at his back—the most difficult of all to fasten alone. The long, chain-link coat, reeking with the familiar mixed odours of human and equine sweat, raw metal, and the thin coating of oil that kept the links from rusting, was split to the waist at front and rear, permitting its wearer to sit astride a horse, and Thomas Beg stepped back, examining the hang of it critically. He nodded, satisfied, and turned away to bend over the metal firebox that still sat in a corner of the tent, where he picked up a cloth-wrapped bundle that had lain there on top of it, unseen by Bruce. He unfolded the cloth to reveal a steaming treasure that made Bruce grin with pleasure: a juice-rich slice of meat compressed between two inch-thick slabs of bread and cut into twin portions.
“Glory be to God,” Bruce said reverently, feeling the saliva squirt beneath his tongue. “Where did you get that?”
Thomas Beg sniffed. “Where d’ye think? I saw ye arguin’ wi’ that damned Englishman last night, afore ye walked awa wi’oot eatin’ a thing, an’ I knew ye’d be sorry. So I wrapped up some o’ what was left an’ took it wi’ me. But I never saw ye after that. Ye must hae came straight to bed.”
“Aye, I did. Damn the man, he drove the thought of eating out of my mind. Sweet Jesus, the fellow is insufferable. I had to walk away or I’d have felled him. Upstart bastard. Aye, well, anyway, I’m obliged to you, Tam … Again.”
Neither man spoke after that until they had finished their food, and then, still in silence, they completed the task of armouring the earl, seating the tight-fitting, leather-lined coif of mail comfortably on his head with its skirts covering his neck and shoulders, and lacing it beneath the chin before adding the heavy casing of steel that protected Bruce’s back and chest.
Thomas Beg was hauling at the last of the buckled straps at Bruce’s waist when the roaring drum rattle overhead abruptly died away, leaving only the sluicing sound of running water being shed from the sloping roof.
“Well,” Thomas growled, “thank the Christ for that. We’ll still be arse deep in mud out there but at least we winna get soaked on top. Unless it starts up again.” He stepped away and opened the tent flaps, and stood peering out for a while and listening to the splashing sounds of unseen people moving around in the darkness. A loud clatter of falling pikes and a bark of profanity announced that someone had blundered into a pile of stacked weapons in the dark, and he turned back to Bruce. “Darker than it should be,” he said, “but there’s no use in carryin’ a torch, even if we had one. The clouds must be awfu’ thick. Are ye set?”
“As close as I’ll ever be,” Bruce answered, tugging at his sheathed sword until it hung comfortably. “Let’s see if we can find that clerkly, whining bastard Benstead, then, and make a start to this auspicious day.”
Thomas Beg looked askance at him, ignoring the heavy irony in Bruce’s emphasis. “Benstead?” he asked instead. “I thought ye put him in his place yesterday,
for good. Why would ye seek him now?”
Bruce grunted, the sound heavy with distaste. “Because of what his true place is. He’s Edward’s official representative. I can’t change that, nor can I ignore it, much as I’d like to. So we’ll go and find him before we set anything in motion, see if he has anything to say. I doubt I’m going to like whatever comes out of his mouth, for the man’s a venomous reptile. But this is a matter of duty, and I owe it not to him but to his master. Come on, now, lead the way.”
Book One
Encounters
1284
CHAPTER ONE
THE COUNTESS
“Ow! Ye wee brute!” Marjorie Bruce, Countess of Carrick, arched her back and pulled away from the infant suckling at her breast, but her youngest was teething and was not at all inclined to relinquish his hold on the nipple. The baby’s nursemaid sprang forward, her face twisting in sympathy as she took the baby out of its mother’s hands.
“Take him away, the wee cannibal,” the countess said, adjusting her bodice to cover her breast. “He’s finished, anyway, so he’ll sleep all afternoon, and I have to start getting ready. Mother of God, what a morning. Make sure you break his wind, or he’ll howl like a wolf. And send Allie in when ye leave. I’ll need her to help me, for Earl Robert should have been here by now and I hae no wish to greet him looking as though I’ve spent the night in the byre wi’ the kine. The King himself will be here come tomorrow and our Nicol should be bringing young Robert and Angus Mohr this afternoon, and God knows there’s much to be done ere any of them arrives, so hurry you up, and be sure the rest o’ the bairns are fed and clean.”
The nursemaid bobbed her head and hurried away, clutching the baby tenderly in her arms, and her mistress stood up with both hands on her hips and flexed her spine, back and forth. She was pregnant again, and though it had not yet begun to show, she was starting to feel it, aware of the familiar changes in her body. This child would be her eighth, God willing, and there were times when she was tempted to wonder, slightly ruefully, if there had ever been a time in her adult life when she had not been heavy with child. She would never complain about that, though, for Marjorie of Carrick believed, with all her being, that she had been put on God’s earth to mother a large and happy brood in a time when many women despaired of ever birthing and rearing a single child successfully. In that, she believed herself blessed. She had spent too long a time, earlier in her life, fearing that she might never mother a child. Now, thinking about that, she lowered herself into a firmly upholstered chair by the big stone fireplace and looked around the comfortably furnished family room on the second floor of the castle keep, making a mental list of all that needed to be done to make the place clean, presentable, and welcoming for her husband’s return. A discarded garment caught her eye, and she bent and scooped it up, a tiny knitted woollen cap, still retaining a trace of warmth from the baby’s head. She sat staring down at it, kneading it with her fingers and smiling to herself, wondering about the ways of God and the futility of trying to discover what He had in store.