Insurrection

by Robyn Young

The gathering began to move, murmuring agitatedly. The Earl of Carrick made his way back down the aisle, his face like thunder. As the Lord of Annandale turned to go, John Comyn grabbed his arm and leaned in close. Robert, caught between them, smelled a bitter odour coming from the wolf pelt that trimmed Comyn’s cloak. He heard him breathe words.

  ‘My father should have killed you in that cell in Lewes when he had the chance.’

  The Lord of Annandale jerked from Comyn’s grip. Propelling Robert in front of him, he headed for the church doors, past the Bishop of St Andrews who was speaking urgently with Wishart.

  ‘There will be blood,’ the bishop was saying. ‘Unless this matter is settled quickly.’

  16

  As he stepped into the evening, Robert heard his father call his name harshly. He didn’t look back, but fought to match his grandfather’s stride. ‘What did Comyn mean? About Lewes?’ His brow knotted. ‘Grandfather!’

  The lord halted abruptly. ‘Do not raise your voice to me, boy.’ He took hold of Robert’s chin roughly. ‘And you should not have drawn your sword against him like that. Do you hear? It is time to make our case with words, not violence.’

  ‘I thought Comyn was going to attack you,’ said Robert, pulling from his grandfather’s grip. ‘And why would you care that I drew my sword against him, when you attacked his castles? You hate him!’

  ‘Yes!’ barked the old lord. ‘And that hatred has the power to rip this kingdom apart!’ He stopped, seeing the earl striding towards them. Turning from Robert, he headed for their horses.

  Robert followed doggedly, his need for answers greater than his awe of this lion of a man. ‘You’ve taught me to ride and to hunt, trained me to fight. You took me to Salisbury and Birgham, introduced me to the most powerful men in the kingdom. You tell me how important I am for the future of this family. Yet you’ve told me almost nothing about your hatred of the Comyns, despite all the times I’ve asked. I want the truth, Grandfather!’

  ‘You’re too young for it.’

  Robert halted. ‘If you become king, I will be an heir to the throne. That right is not determined by age. Why should the truth be?’

  The Lord of Annandale turned, his craggy face changing, anger fading into surprise. After a moment, the lord crossed to him and grasped him by the shoulder. ‘Come.’ He glanced round as Robert’s father approached with his knights and Edward. ‘Get the horses. We’ll follow.’ Before the earl could respond, the lord steered Robert away across the courtyard.

  As they came out from between the buildings, Robert realised his grandfather was leading him to the Moot Hill. Together, they climbed the slope to the bare crown. The sun had set and the shadows were gathering. From the royal burgh of Scone, beyond the abbey grounds, smoke drifted on the chill. It would soon be All Souls. Their breath misted the air as they reached the top. There was a stone plinth rising from the earth in the centre of the circle of trees. As Robert saw it, he knew at once that it was where the Stone of Destiny would be set for the inaugurations. He stared at it, struck by the gravity of this place.

  Even with all that had happened since the maid’s death, he realised he had still been seeing his grandfather’s claim as something distant and unreal. Now, in this hallowed setting, where since time immemorial Scotland’s kings had been made, he felt the profound weight of this truth settle inside him: it wasn’t just words, claims and counterclaims – it was something as real and solid as the stone itself. He thought of the tree his grandfather had spoken so seriously of when he first arrived at Lochmaben; the tree with roots stretching back into the past. Men whose blood flowed in his veins had ascended this hill to this very spot. He was standing on the echoes of the footsteps of his ancestors. All around him now, in the dusky shadows, Robert could feel them: the ghosts of his history. The kings of old.

  In the dying light, his grandfather turned to him.

  Lewes, England

  1264 AD

  The council of war had ended and letters of defiance had been exchanged. There were to be no more words. Now, only swords would make statements, expressing themselves in the flesh of the enemy.

  One by one, the three divisions of the royal army left the safety of the town walls, riding behind their commanders. White clouds chased one another across the morning sky, sweeping vast shadows over the Downs that surrounded the town of Lewes. May blossom fell on the heads of the cavalry and their horses, and on the foot soldiers that followed in their wake. Sunlight flashed in and out, glinting on lance tips and glittering across mail. Riding up on to the higher ground, banners flying, they left the town below them. The castle keep was still visible for a time, jutting from its grassy motte, beyond which the land tumbled into the valley cut by the river. Ahead, nearer now, were the men they had come to meet.

  The enemy was arrayed on the hillside in three contingents half a mile long. They had the advantage of the high ground, the terrain studded with trees at their backs. In the front and centre of one company a banner was raised, one half white, the other red. It was parted down the centre, a fitting image for the division in the kingdom that had led these men, once allies and comrades, to these cloud-crowned English hills. The knights of the royal army, who had ridden out of Lewes, were fixed on that banner like archers to a target, all their focus channelled into that distant, undulating cloth, the mark of so much hatred and the reason for their being here: the arms of Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester.

  Sir Robert Bruce, Lord of Annandale, Sheriff of Cumberland and Governor of Carlisle, watched as the motionless enemy lines grew closer with every stride of his horse. His men rode around him, eleven lances in all, with a banneret to bear his standard. The ring of their bridles was loud in his ears, above the thunderous din of the three-thousand-strong company he moved within, led by the King of England. Beyond the circle of his knights were his countrymen, who, like himself, had crossed the border at King Henry’s summons to do service for their English lands. Among them were John Balliol, Lord of Barnard Castle, and John Comyn of Badenoch. Both lords were in their fifties, ten years his senior and grey-haired and soft-bellied with it, but they were set for battle, their men formed up around them. The division between the two armies extended even into families, for while John Comyn was here to serve the king, another branch of the family, the Comyns of Kilbride, were with the rebels. Fighting for Simon de Montfort, they were no doubt hoping for a slice of the glory already attained by the more influential branches of the Red and the Black.

  This was the closest Bruce had been to Comyn since his arrival in England. Until now, the two men had kept apart, their animosity seething, invisible between them. It was only seven years since the Comyns had kidnapped King Alexander in an attempt to gain control of Scotland. Despite the fact that Alexander had since been restored to his throne and peace bargains struck, it wasn’t long enough for Bruce to forgive the treachery against the young king, whom he looked upon as a son. Neither was it long enough for the Red Comyns to forget that Bruce supported their enemies during the crisis and had been instrumental in Alexander’s restoration, an act which almost destroyed their family.

  It was thus with watchful unease that the Lord of Annandale rode his horse on to the Downs, aware that the enemy beside him might be more dangerous than the one arrayed on the hilltop. A stray blade in his back. A misdirected arrow. Such a thing would go against every code of chivalry, for nobles did not intentionally kill nobles, even in battle. But the Comyns had little true noble blood in them, despite their high position.

  Hearing a horn, Bruce looked ahead to where King Henry’s banner marked his position in the vanguard of the royal army’s left flank. The front lines of the king’s company were slowing. Bruce reined in his horse, his men gathering around him. Through the forest of lances he could see two more contingents stretching away across the hillside. The centre was commanded by Henry’s brother, the Earl of Cornwall, the right flank by the king’s son. Edward was visible even at this distance, unmistakable in scarlet and gol
d. He had returned from France the year before at the head of a large company of French nobles, intending to liberate his lands in Wales from Llywelyn ap Gruffudd. Instead, he had been plunged into the conflict between his father and godfather that had escalated into the unthinkable. Civil war.

  For six months, Edward had pursued Montfort and his supporters across the realm and into Wales, challenged by the mountains and shadowed by the menace of Llywelyn. Bruce, who had been in the king’s service since the start of the year, aiding in a victory over Montfort’s forces at Northampton, had heard much of Edward’s exploits. Despite reservations about the young man’s impetuous and aggressive temperament, Bruce had been impressed. He had never seen a man so confident before battle. King Henry had ordered one of his barons to lead the left flank in the charge and the Earl of Cornwall had chosen his eldest son to direct the centre’s attack. But Edward would lead his own men. The Earl of Leicester might have the advantage of the high ground, but that was all. The royal army, ten thousand strong, outnumbered his rebel forces by more than two to one. Montfort was in his middle years and had never fought a pitched battle. Edward was twenty-five, filled with determination and a youthful sense of immortality, blooded all last summer on French tournament grounds.

  On both sides shield straps were tightened, helms drawn down over padded coifs, stirrups adjusted, girths checked. Knights took their lances from their squires, gripping the ash shafts. There were no coronels to spread the force of impact, no dulled tips. These were lances of war. Behind the front lines of the royal cavalry the smaller contingents, Bruce’s among them, readied themselves, but didn’t yet pull on their helms. They would form part of a second wave. Behind them the foot soldiers covered the slopes in a thicket of spears and swords. Their part too was yet to come. First, the knights.

  The horn blew again from Henry’s ranks, followed by a deeper, answering call from the enemy lines; two beasts roaring at one another across the green hills. The knights of the royal army set out. They started at a walk, riding knee to knee. On the hillside, Montfort’s forces remained motionless, keeping tight control over their horses. These men wore the white crosses of crusaders; a sign that theirs was a holy cause, as proclaimed by their leader. The royalists leaned forward in their saddles to aid their destriers on the slope. The walk turned into a trot, bells on caparisons ringing. As they neared the enemy the breaks between the three companies became more apparent, Henry’s left flank driving towards Montfort’s right, centre towards centre. Still, Montfort’s forces waited. Battle cries sounded from the royalists, tearing from throats; feral sounds made by men who knew this charge could be their last. Now, trot turned to canter and the earth began to shudder. At the last moment, so as to preserve as much energy for the fight as possible, Montfort unleashed his cavalry. His knights spurred their chargers and plunged hard down the hill to meet the incoming force. Horses struck white wounds in the grass as hooves scuffed the chalk beneath. Lances swung down to level at the enemy as hundreds of tonnes of steel and muscle raced towards one another.

  As the armies clashed, the Lord of Annandale, watching with the remainder of the king’s flank, knew the awe of an English heavy cavalry charge. Lances shattered, horses reared, men tumbled from saddles. Blood flew, flesh opening beneath edges and points of iron that punctured padding and mail. The unhorsing, wounding and capture of the enemy was sought, for corpses fetched little ransom, but in the blind chaos of the charge, death was a whore who did not care who she drew into her darkness, veteran knight or callow bachelor.

  Edward’s company punched through the enemy’s left flank like a fist through parchment, tearing great holes in their lines. Lances, spent or smashed, were thrown aside as the ranks closed in, drawing swords and hacking at one another. The crack of steel on shields and screams of men and horses rose in a mad clamour. More knights fell, those unhorsed pulling at those still mounted, dragging them down into the crush beneath. Down here, swords were knocked from hands and daggers were drawn, the battle close and grim. All notions of chivalry were swept aside in the rough press. Weapons jabbed and slashed, seeking openings in defences. Arms and fingers were broken under hooves, spines cracked, groins gashed.

  The reek of blood swelled in the stew of the mêlée as Edward’s company pushed against the rebels, half his men locking the left flank into the vicious brawl, while the others circled to outflank them. Montfort’s men fought on bitterly, but were soon surrounded. Those still in their saddles found their horses attacked, the beasts toppled by the slash of blades across hind legs. Edward’s men sounded his battle cry; a cry that had called so many ambitious bachelors to his banner, from the tournament grounds of France to the wars in Wales. Slowly, but surely, the enemy’s lines began to break apart under the determined onslaught of Edward’s forces. Horns rang out in encouragement as the young lord and his knights surged deep into the ragged left flank of Montfort’s army.

  The two other contingents of the royal forces were engaged in more sober, rooted battles against Montfort’s right and centre. The rebels had used less energy in the initial charge, allowing the high ground to do its work in tiring the royal forces on the upward assault. Montfort himself, along with his seasoned knights, was concentrated in the centre, against the Earl of Cornwall. Cornwall’s son had led a rather loose charge, his men splitting at the crucial point of impact. Montfort, by contrast, had kept his ranks tight, forming an indomitable barrier against which Cornwall’s knights had dashed themselves, like waves upon rocks. The battle for the centre had since spread out across the hillside. Several times Cornwall’s forces tried to outflank the rebels, but Montfort’s horns had called his bowmen to repel the knights with a rain of arrows that blinded and disorientated them.

  King Henry and his barons, at the head of the left flank, fought a slower, more entrenched campaign. Having called up the smaller contingents, they were making some progress against Montfort’s right wing, but unlike Edward’s ferocious attack which had smashed through the enemy lines, they were only able to chip away at the determined rebels, who refused to give quarter.

  Across the hillside, above the chaos of Montfort’s left flank, a scarlet banner was raised by Edward’s men, the dragon at its centre a terror wreathed in golden flames, a sign that there was to be no mercy. The noblemen who survived the battle would be taken prisoner and ransomed, but no such chivalry awaited the foot soldiers beyond. Mostly made up of labourers from London, they would fetch no payment. They were nothing but an opportunity for the slaking of blood lust, nothing but fodder for worms. Edward’s knights, bypassing the straggling remains of the cavalry, crashed straight through them. As the infantry, unable to withstand such brute force, turned and raced for the safety of the woods at their back, Edward’s men followed. Rushing up the hillside, they thundered away down the other side to vanish from view.

  Ahead was a mass of moving spears as Montfort’s right flank pushed doggedly against King Henry’s company. The Lord of Annandale gripped his lance, holding it steady as his horse was knocked and jostled. His helm channelled his vision into two slits of chaos and his knee was being crushed, wedged between his saddle and another man’s destrier. The sweltering heat inside his helm and the stink of his own sweat were suffocating. Every now and then, when an opening appeared, Bruce roared at his men, still pressed tight around him and, together, they urged their horses forward to block it, jabbing and thrusting at any who attempted to push through. Edward’s company was long gone, as were the foot soldiers they had been pursuing. Only Montfort’s centre and right flank remained, but although their numbers were inferior, their resolve was anything but. Edward’s disappearance had left Cornwall’s company open to attack from the side and Montfort was using that advantage to full effect, leading his veteran knights to outflank the earl’s forces.

  The mob ahead of Bruce parted again and another of Montfort’s men broke through. He was blood-spattered, his shield buckled and splintered in the centre. He came straight at Bruce, faceless in steel, only
the arms on his surcoat and ailettes offering any clue to his identity. Both were unknown to Bruce as he lunged with his lance. It collided with the side of the man’s helm. Iron tip screeched along metal cheek, then punched on past. The man reeled with the blow and lashed out with his sword, striking Bruce in the head. The Lord of Annandale felt the blow like a hammer on his brain. His head thudding with the concussion, he snarled against the pain and struck out, but the knight was already gone, pulled from his charger by one of Bruce’s men to be trampled into the sludge of mud and blood welling up beneath the hooves. Bruce could hear cries all around him, punctuated by the squeals of horses. More of Montfort’s men were pushing through, spearing holes in Henry’s lines.

  A horse reared up beside Bruce, sending its rider tumbling into him, clouting his lance out of his grip. Hauling on the reins as his mount panicked, refusing to let it turn, Bruce recovered his balance and wrenched his sword from his scabbard as another rebel came at him. Despite the fact that his horse was bucking beneath him, he caught the man in the neck with a crushing blow, the man’s mail snapping with the force. The blade stuck in flesh, before the lord wrenched it free with a mist of blood. Somewhere, a horn was blaring.

  The Earl of Cornwall had been outflanked by Montfort’s forces. Finding himself caught in a sea of enemy soldiers, his knights unable to reach him, the king’s brother fought his way free in desperation. Spurring his horse out of the mêlée, he fled across the fields. As his household troops followed, their horns ringing a retreat, the battle for the centre disintegrated. The rest of Cornwall’s forces, leaderless and panic-stricken, began to scatter, the rebels roaring in elation as they gave chase. The centre, breaking apart across the hillside, left the king’s flank wide open to attack. Seeing the royal forces in disarray encouraged Montfort’s men to an ever more determined assault and all along the front lines of King Henry’s company gaps appeared as his knights were beaten back. Simon de Montfort had proclaimed this a holy war against the king. Now, it appeared, God was on his side.