by Robyn Young
‘Come, we will start again,’ Yothre was saying, gesturing for Robert to follow as he headed up the beach towards Ironfoot. ‘And this time, if you do as I say, we can avoid any further—’ His words were cut off by a high-pitched shout.
A small boy was racing across the dunes towards them. Behind him Turnberry Castle perched on its promontory of rock over the surging sea, its battlements crowned by the circling silhouettes of cormorants and gulls.
Robert smiled as the boy ran faster, his short legs puffing sand into a cloud around him. ‘Niall!’
His youngest brother came to a breathless halt before him, blithely ignoring Yothre who looked infuriated.
‘Men have come, and’ – Niall sucked in a breath – ‘and Grandfather!’
Robert’s face broke into a wide grin of surprise. At once, he set off across the sand with Niall, his tunic flapping wetly around his legs.
‘Master Robert,’ barked Yothre behind him, ‘your lesson isn’t over.’ As the boys turned, the man thrust the broken lance towards Ironfoot. ‘You’ll ride him again before we’re finished.’
‘I’ll ride him tomorrow.’
‘Your father will be told of your disobedience.’
Robert’s storm-blue eyes narrowed. ‘Tell him then,’ he said, sprinting after his brother.
Once over the dunes, the two boys passed the little cluster of houses, fishermen’s boats and farmsteads that made up Turnberry village and raced on to the sandy track that led to the castle. Here, Robert picked up speed, his long legs punching into the ground as he left Niall far behind him. The earth beneath his feet was pocked with the fresh prints of many horses. His lungs burned, the exertion driving out the ice in his limbs, driving out too Yothre’s threat.
As he approached the gates, which had been thrown wide open, one of the guards called to him.
‘Master Robert!’ The guard grinned. ‘What did that devil do to you today?’
Ignoring him, Robert slowed as he entered the castle courtyard. There were many men and horses here being directed by the stable-master. In between the slow-moving animals, Robert caught sight of his family, all of whom had come out to greet the unexpected arrivals. He glanced impatiently over his two brothers, his mother and three sisters, one of whom was bawling in the arms of her wet nurse. His eyes lingered for a moment on his father, the Earl of Carrick, dressed in a crimson cloak trimmed with gold braid, then moved to take in the newcomers. He recognised, with some surprise, James Stewart. The High Steward of Scotland, one of the chief officials in the kingdom whose powerful family had held the stewardship for generations, was standing with a great earl from the east. There were others too, but all of them faded away as Robert’s gaze came to rest on the leonine man in their centre, with that great mane of silver hair and that hard, ancient face. Robert Bruce, Lord of Annandale. The man whose name both he and his father shared.
Hearing Niall come gasping up behind him, Robert moved towards his grandfather, who was clad in a dust-stained surcoat and mantle, emblazoned with the arms of Annandale. His smile froze on his lips as he saw the old man’s grave expression. It was reflected, he realised, in the faces of the other adults. His mother looked shocked, his father was shaking his head. Then, Robert heard the words. They sounded impossible, but the look of the adults proved their truth. He spoke loudly, without thinking, repeating those words in a question. ‘The king is dead?’
They turned to look at him, standing there sopping wet, seaweed in his hair and a graze of sand on his cheek. He saw his mother’s concern and his father’s disapproval, before his grandfather’s voice filled the silence.
‘Come here and let me see you, boy.’
And those eyes, dark and fierce as a hawk’s, were on him.
3
With the unforeseen arrival of the great lords, the castle’s servants were kept busy late into the day, lighting fires in empty chambers, finding fresh linen for beds and clearing space in the stables. Nowhere was more frenetic than the kitchen, the cooks faced with turning a meal for the earl’s already sizeable household into a grand feast for seven noblemen and their army of retainers. This number swelled, late in the afternoon, when another six men rode in through the castle gates. To Robert, watching from the window of the room he shared with his brothers, the day had the feeling of something portentous about it; something hushed and expectant that went beyond the news of the king’s death. He wondered what this meant and what would now happen as down in the courtyard the guards pulled the gates shut behind the six riders. Somewhere in the castle a bell clanged. The last of the light was fading in the west, where lightning danced silently over the hills of Arran.
As the men entered the castle’s hall, servants slipped in among them, pouring ruby-red wine into rows of pewter goblets. Outside, the sea’s muffled boom was ever present, the salty tang mingling with the smells of food and wood-smoke. Three extra trestles and boards had been put out to seat everyone and the hall was crowded, the air stuffy with the heat from the fire in the cavernous hearth. On the wall behind the head table hung the earl’s banner, emblazoned with the arms of Carrick: a red chevron on white. On another was strung a grand tapestry capturing, in twists of vivid silk, the moment Malcolm Canmore killed his hated rival, Macbeth, in battle and took the throne, beginning the illustrious dynasty of which the Bruce family were distant descendants. Robert had always thought the figure of the victorious king looked remarkably like his father.
He shifted impatiently outside the hall’s doors as the guests filed through, the magnates settling into their places at the head table, their knights and retainers filling the benches around the other trestles. With Robert were his younger brothers, Alexander, Thomas and Niall, and his older sister, Isabel. When the last of the men, a youth with startlingly blue eyes, one of which winked at the waiting children, entered, Robert went to step through, determined to find a seat as close to his grandfather as possible. He was brought up short by his mother’s voice.
‘You’ll be eating in your room this evening.’
Robert turned, thunderstruck by the announcement. The formidably tall figure of his mother, the Countess of Carrick, through whom his father had become earl of the wild county on their marriage, moved out of the shadows of the passage. Her abundant black hair was coiled on her head in a complex arrangement of braids, held in place by silver wire. Her white linen gown stretched smoothly over her stomach, swollen with her tenth child.
Her gaze fixed on Robert as she came towards him, holding the hand of a toddling girl. ‘Do you hear me?’
‘Mother . . .’ began Isabel.
‘Bid your father and grandfather good night, then upstairs with you.’ This she said in Gaelic, which the children knew meant the conversation was over. She only spoke Gaelic when she was angry or addressing the servants. ‘Go on now,’ she said, switching back into French, her husband’s preferred tongue.
Entering the hall, which was full of the low murmur of conversation, Robert approached his father, seated at the head table. He tried to catch his gaze, searching for signs of the anger he knew must come had his father been told he had shunned his day’s training. The earl was deep in conversation with a bear of a man, draped in black furs. Robert recognised him as one of the men who had arrived late in the day. ‘Good night, Father,’ he murmured.
The earl glanced at him, but continued his intent conversation. Wondering, with a burgeoning sense of relief, if the day’s extraordinary events meant Yothre hadn’t told his father after all, Robert moved swiftly towards his grandfather, seated at the table’s other end. The Lord of Annandale had picked up his little sister Christian, who had toddled in with their mother.
‘What have you been feeding her, Lady Marjorie?’ the old Bruce was saying as he set the child down with a grunt.
The countess smiled warmly at the old man. ‘Come on now,’ she chided, ushering her dallying children towards the door, where their nurse was waiting to lead them upstairs.
As Robert loitered hope
fully, his father’s harsh tones struck out.
‘You heard your mother. Out!’
The Lord of Annandale glanced over at Robert, then focused on the earl. ‘After you, son, the boy is head of this household. He should stay for this.’ The old man nodded to Marjorie. ‘With your permission, my lady.’
Before the countess could answer, Robert’s father spoke again. ‘Head of the household?’ His voice was a whip. ‘At eleven and unable to stay in the saddle with a lance? I wonder why I sent him to Antrim at all if that is the fruit of my labour.’
Heat prickled in Robert’s cheeks and he lowered his head, thinking all the men in the hall could see his shame.
In truth, none of them was looking at him; their attention was divided between the two men at either end of the head table, whose eyes were locked in a silent war, one set black and fierce, filled with steel and arrogance, the other glacial blue, narrowed in contempt.
‘I do not mind if Robert stays.’ The countess moved to her husband and placed two calm hands on his shoulders.
The earl muttered something as his wife eased herself on to the cushioned chair set out for her, but Robert wasn’t listening. He bit his lip to hide his grin as his grandfather gestured to the bench closest to him. The three men seated upon it, one of whom was the high steward himself, moved along to make room. Robert caught a jealous look from his brother, Alexander, which made the victory even sweeter, and then the rest of the children were led away. Glancing round as he sat, Robert realised he was next to the blue-eyed youth who had winked at him. He inclined his head somewhere between a nod and a bow, unsure whether the young man deserved simple politeness or deep respect. The youth smiled in return.
‘Lord Steward,’ began Robert’s grandfather, his voice curt with authority, silencing the men around him, ‘would you open our council by sharing with my son and the Lord of Islay the news from the royal court that we now know.’ He nodded to the bear-like man in the furs, who had been in conversation with the earl. ‘My summons informed you, Angus, of the black tidings that are the cause of our gathering this evening, but there are other details I could not risk revealing in a message and—’
‘I believe, Father,’ the earl cut across him, ‘that some introductions are in order before we begin. Our comrades here may know one another by name, but not all by sight.’ He didn’t wait for an answer, but rose, his crimson robe settling around him as he extended a hand to a broad-shouldered man with black, oily hair, seated along the head table. ‘Sir Patrick, Earl of Dunbar.’
Robert tore his gaze from his grandfather’s rigid expression as his father continued.
‘Sir Walter Stewart, Earl of Menteith, and his sons, Alexander and John.’ The earl moved his hand to three men who shared the same red hair and ruddy, freckled skin. He then gestured to the aged Lord of Islay seated to his right, wrapped in the furs. ‘Sir Angus Mór MacDonald.’ He nodded down the table to a stocky man with a frank expression and the blue-eyed youth beside Robert. ‘His sons Alexander and Angus Og.’ At last, the earl motioned to the steward. ‘And, of course, Sir James Stewart and his brother, John.’ He seated himself beside the countess, his arms spread expansively. ‘The Lady Marjorie and I are honoured to welcome you to our hall, despite the circumstances.’ He inclined his head to James as the servants entered, bearing tureens of steaming venison stew, laced with fragrant thyme. ‘Now, Lord Steward, do begin. I am anxious to hear your tidings in full.’
Robert stared around the table, putting names and histories to the faces before him. He knew he was in the company of some of the most powerful men in the kingdom, which was thrilling enough to take the sting out of the fact that his father had ignored him in the introductions.
The steward rose. ‘You all now know the devastating truth that our noble king and lord, Alexander, died last month while riding to visit his queen at Kinghorn. He was separated from his escort in a storm. It appears his horse lost its footing and took him over the cliff. His neck was broken by the fall.’
Only the scrape of ladles against the tureens accompanied the steward’s grave words, the servants waiting on the head table first. Robert’s nose filled with the smell of meat as a servant spooned the thick stew on to the trencher in front of him. The slab of bread had a hollow in the centre to catch the juices. Glancing at his father, Robert saw he was sitting forward, listening intently. As he felt for a spoon, he realised he hadn’t been given one. The servant had passed on down the line of men and Robert didn’t dare call out. He hadn’t eaten since that morning and his stomach wrenched.
‘No sooner was his body discovered than the Comyns sought to take control.’ A note of anger entered the steward’s poised tone. ‘Fortunately, many of the king’s officials had been in Edinburgh for a council and we were able to halt their ambitions.’ He nodded to the Earl of Dunbar. ‘Sir Patrick and I, with the support of the Bishop of Glasgow, forced the election of a council of six guardians. They will rule until the throne is filled.’
‘Who are the six?’ asked the Lord of Islay, his rumbling voice filling the chamber. His French was blunt and awkward, Gaelic his native tongue.
‘Myself,’ answered the steward, ‘the bishops of Glasgow and St Andrews, the Earl of Fife, and the heads of the Red and the Black Comyns.’
‘A balance of power,’ muttered the Earl of Carrick, digging his spoon into the stew. ‘It is a pity you could not swing the scales more firmly in your favour, Lord Steward.’
‘The Comyns hold some of the most powerful offices in our kingdom. They could not well be kept out.’
Robert was studying his dinner, wondering if he could eat with his hands, when a spoon slid into view from his right. Angus Og MacDonald took a small knife from a sheath on his belt, sliced a wedge out of his trencher and stuffed it in his mouth, his blue eyes glittering in the torchlight. Robert nodded his thanks to the Lord of Islay’s son then thrust the spoon into the stew.
‘We are all well aware of the Comyns’ endeavours to control the throne,’ continued James. ‘They have always done so, even by force, as some of us well remember.’ The steward’s eyes moved to the Lord of Annandale, who nodded but said nothing. ‘But there is something more worrying than their rush to power.’ He returned to addressing the rest of the men. ‘At court, I have learned that it pays to watch those closest to the king. For a time now, my men have kept an eye on dealings in the royal household. In the wake of the king’s death, one of my spies overheard Sir John Comyn directing one of his knights to take a message to Galloway. Comyn spoke of Alexander’s death and that the king had granted the release of a prisoner, petitioned for during the council. But there was one thing in particular that caught my man’s attention. Comyn said, tell my brother-in-law that I will meet him soon, for the time is at hand when the white lion will blush.’
Several of the men spoke up at once.
The Earl of Carrick stared at the steward, his brow furrowing. ‘Balliol?’ he said sharply.
‘We believe,’ said James, nodding at the earl’s expression, ‘that the Red Comyn intends to put the Lord of Galloway on the throne.’
Robert’s spoon halted mid-way to his mouth. He looked around the table at the men’s grim faces, but none of them revealed how this startling conclusion had been reached. He put down his spoon as the men began to talk over one another. All at once, he got the connection. The lion on the banner of Galloway was white. The lion on the royal banner of Scotland was red. When the white lion will blush.
The Lord of Islay’s deep voice sounded over the others. ‘That is a grave charge to lay upon men who have taken the oath of fealty.’ Angus Mór MacDonald leaned forward, his furs shifting on his huge frame. ‘It is only two years since the lords of Scotland swore to recognise Alexander’s granddaughter as his heir. Margaret now holds the right to the throne. All of us made that pledge. I have no love for the Comyn men, but to accuse them and John Balliol of Galloway of breaking that oath . . .?’
‘Who among us imagined we would have to
fulfil it, especially after the king’s marriage to Yolande?’ countered Patrick of Dunbar, running a hand through his oily hair. ‘The recognition of the king’s granddaughter in Norway as his heir was a sensible precaution, not a reality any of us wanted to face. The fealty we swore on that day sits heavily upon all of our shoulders. How many will now sit back, content to be governed from afar by an infant queen in a foreign court?’ He nodded to the steward. ‘I have no doubt that Balliol, led by the ambitions of the Comyns, aims for the throne.’
‘We must move swiftly,’ said the Earl of Carrick. ‘We cannot let the Comyns put their kinsman on the Stone of Destiny.’ He banged his fist on the table, rattling dishes and goblets. ‘We cannot let them take what is ours!’ He stopped, glancing at the Lord of Annandale. ‘What is yours, Father,’ he corrected. ‘If any man in this kingdom should take the throne it is you. Your claim is greater than Balliol’s.’
‘Not by primogeniture,’ said the Earl of Menteith quietly, his eyes on the lord of Annandale, who had remained silent. ‘By the law of first blood, Balliol’s claim wins.’