by Robyn Young
The lines that marked Edward’s brow deepened. ‘I believed, when Alexander spoke of the possibility of marriage between our houses that I had found a way of accomplishing my aim without any need for great expenditure, or loss of men. You know how the wars in Wales crippled me. I cannot afford such a costly military campaign. Not now, when the barons are festering over my long absence.’ Edward turned to Warenne. ‘But neither will I let what I have worked so hard to achieve be in vain. My father may have been blind to the opportunity presented by the Scots’ appeal for intervention. I am not. As soon as my wife’s body has been laid to rest I will go north, finish what I started six years ago. I believe the prophecy can yet be fulfilled without war.’
Affraig pulled her cloak tight around her as she stepped into the late December evening. The wind bit into her skin and dragged tears from her eyes. The sky was ashen and the hill stood brown and bleak. Just a few leaves clung to the bare limbs of the oak and the ground around it was strewn with twigs and a papery carpet of russet. Affraig saw that two more destinies had fallen in the night, tossed from the branches by the gale that had danced like the devil through the valley to beat its fists against her walls. She would bring them in later, burn the twigs and the rope that bound them, then bury the objects, delivering them to the earth.
Crouching, Affraig set down the pestle and mortar she was carrying and ran her fingers across the ground. It was as hard as stone. Taking the pestle in both hands, she drove it into the earth, working the black soil loose. The effort warmed her body as she laboured, pausing to push her hair from her eyes. A dank smell filled the air as, slowly, the earth about her feet was broken into clods. Setting the pestle in the mortar, she drew a pouch from her belt. Already she could see a fat worm pushing its way out of one of the clods, seeking and blind. She grasped it, drawing its pink length out of the mud. It twisted in her pinching fingers as she stowed it in the pouch. Her hands turned the clods, searching for more. In this way, she collected seven earthworms. Holding the pouch closed, she picked up her pestle and rose.
The dogs looked up expectantly as she entered the house. Ignoring them, she went to her work area, where she set down the mortar and sack. The woman would be here soon. Shaking a handful of musty-smelling barley into the mortar, Affraig drew out the earthworms, one by one, and laid them on top of the grains. The worms squirmed against one another, their corded bodies glistening in the glow of a single candle. Affraig laid her palm over the top of the bowl, leaving enough room to wedge the pestle between the splay of her thumb and forefinger, then plunged the rounded end of the stone instrument into the mortar. It slipped and slid for a few moments, until the bodies burst and she found purchase, grinding the pestle in brisk movements. She closed her eyes and murmured a series of words before taking out the pestle and banging it on the side of the mortar. Inside was a raw, slippery mess, thickened by the barley. She wondered about sprinkling some dried lavender heads into it, but decided against it. The woman wasn’t paying her enough for that.
Affraig was cleaning out the mortar when the dogs leapt up and began to bark. She hissed at them as she crossed the cluttered chamber and they quietened at once. Opening the door, she saw two women making their way down the hillside, their woollen cloaks tossed by the wind. She heard a peal of laughter come from the larger of the two. The sound nettled Affraig. There was a time when people came to her in reverent silence, their eyes filled with fear and awe. Now, the women laughed and teased one another as they filed to her door for their love spells and charms. In some senses, she doubted they even truly believed, despite the coins they gave her. It was something they did just in case, a spare chance if God didn’t hear their prayers. They had forgotten the ancient days when warrior women called curses from the sky like lightning against their enemies; the days when Druids walked the land of Britain and all would cast down their eyes, forbidden to look upon the holy men. The old magic was fading. It had been for a long time.
The two women stepped into the house, close together, eyeing the dogs. Affraig went to the counter and picked up a linen pouch, tied with twine, into which she had spooned the mixture of worms and barley. She crossed to the larger woman. ‘It is done.’
‘What must I do?’ asked the woman, taking the pouch eagerly in her stubby fingers.
‘Put it into his food on the next night when the moon is full. You must make certain that he eats it all. When he has, he will be induced to love.’
The woman licked her lips as she stared at the pouch. ‘And he’ll ask me to marry him?’
‘He will yearn for you, that much I can say.’
‘How will you get it into his meal?’ questioned the other woman, over her companion’s plump shoulder.
‘I’ll make sure I’m in the kitchen before supper is served in the guardroom.’
‘You’d better make sure he doesn’t get the wrong portion,’ sniggered the companion. ‘You could end up being wooed by that old goat Yothre!’
The woman glared at her friend, then looked anxiously back at Affraig. ‘What if he doesn’t eat it by the next full moon?’
‘Then it will not work. The spell will decay.’
The large woman frowned at her companion. ‘He’s in Annandale serving Sir Robert. Will he be back in time?’
‘They’re due any day now, so Lady Marjorie said.’
‘The Earl of Carrick is in Annandale?’ Affraig cut across them.
‘Yes,’ responded the plump woman, her eyes brightening, eager for gossip. ‘Haven’t you heard? Now poor Maid Margaret is dead a great council is to be held. Lady Marjorie says the King of England will come north in the spring to help choose our new king. Earl Robert will soon return to Turnberry to prepare his claim.’
‘His claim?’ Affraig’s voice was taut. ‘It is not the earl’s right, but the right of his father, the Lord of Annandale, to take the throne of our kingdom.’
The large woman looked unconvinced. ‘The lord is as ancient as these hills. He’ll not wear the crown for long. The earl will succeed him.’ She gave a self-satisfied smile. ‘And his knights will benefit greatly by his elevation.’
‘And so will you, if you marry one of them,’ murmured her companion, pinching her arm and making her giggle.
The large woman held out her free hand to Affraig. ‘Here’s your payment.’
Affraig felt the hot pennies drop into her palm. Resisting an urge to throw them into the woman’s pasty face, she clamped her cold fingers over the sticky metal and went to the door. She opened it without a word, her face grim.
The two women bustled past, out into the cutting wind. Affraig watched them head up the hill, the plump woman holding the pouch aloft and singing words in a girlish voice, while the other cackled. Affraig’s eyes moved to the oak tree that towered above her, its branches like antlers against the white sky. Her gaze travelled up to the weathered web that hung from one of the higher boughs, the slender noose swinging inside. In her mind she saw herself weaving it while she chanted words against Malachy’s wrathful curse. She remembered the lord’s hand settling on her shoulder, the hiss of the fire, his breath on her neck and, outside, stars falling like fiery rain. Her gaze moved west towards Turnberry. Her memory clouded with thoughts of the earl, but as she thought of his son her mind cleared. The stars had been falling too on the night he was born. She remembered seeing Mars, full and red, a bloody eye winking in the black.
18
The River Tweed curved a broad course through meadows and crop fields. The southern banks marked the end of the kingdom of England while across the wind-ruffled water, on the northern bank, the kingdom of Scotland began.
At a large, lazy loop in the river on the English side was the small settlement of Norham. The town, slumbering in the treacle-thick heat of a midsummer afternoon, was dominated by a stone castle, one of the chief strongholds of Anthony Bek, the Bishop of Durham. The sheer whitewashed walls, reflected in the river’s glassy surface, were gashed with arrow slits, all facing the reed-frin
ged northern bank. Hanging from the tallest turret was a scarlet banner, adorned with three golden lions.
Inside the castle’s hall, a host of men was gathered. Beams criss-crossed the vertiginous space above their heads and the painted walls were bedecked with tapestries. On one half of the hall the hangings displayed scenes of salvation. The other side was dominated by judgement. At the end of the chamber a stained-glass window showed the archangel Michael weighing the souls of men, his grim face made up of hundreds of shards of ruby-red glass. Below the window, in the centre of a dais, was a throne. Seated upon it was the King of England. Around Edward stood his chief officials, the Earl of Surrey and Bishop Bek among them. They were joined on the platform by thirteen men.
Robert, standing beside his brother in the crowd of Scottish magnates, watched with the rest of the assembly as, one by one, the thirteen crossed the dais to kneel before the king. The hall was eerily silent. This was supposed to have been a momentous occasion and, indeed, it was, but just not in any way the Scots had envisaged. Robert noted that the only men in the gathering who appeared satisfied with this ceremony were the English. As well they might, for their king was now overlord of Scotland.
Only last month the Scots had been awaiting Edward’s arrival with keen expectance. True, there had been wariness among some and the Bishop of Glasgow in particular had voiced his concerns over foreign intervention, but for the most part the atmosphere had been charged with hope. After five turbulent years, the matter of who would succeed Alexander would at last be determined. The guardians and the realm had remained divided between Balliol and the Bruce, despite fraught councils at Scone, and so King Edward was coming to act as arbiter between the two.
Late in April, the magnates began to gather at the royal burgh of Berwick on the north bank of the Tweed to await the king. But when Edward finally arrived he came not with the visage of a brother or friend, but with the face of a would-be conqueror, escorted by an army of lawyers and advisers, shadowed on the coast by a fleet of warships and on land by six hundred crossbowmen and five hundred knights. Here, in Norham Castle, Edward had told them he would indeed choose their king, but first they must recognise him as their overlord. He said he brought evidence, in the form of extensive documents wielded by his clerks, that proved his ancient right to this position. The guardians led by Bishop Wishart protested vigorously against the demand, but the king remained coldly defiant through the heated councils that ensued, and all the while his army kept an ominous presence on the banks of the Tweed.
In the end, despite their protests, the Scottish magnates were forced to yield, desperate for a conclusion that would end the uncertainty within the kingdom. The constables handed over control of the royal castles and the guardians were compelled to resign their authority, whereupon Edward reappointed them with the addition of an English official. There was, however, one condition to these terms which the guardians had refused to concede on. The condition was that Scotland’s future independence be secured by Edward’s agreement that he would act as overlord only until a new king was appointed. Within two months of the inauguration, he was to return control of the royal castles, resign his authority to the King of Scotland and, thereafter, would demand nothing more. Edward agreed, setting his seal to the arrangement, before announcing to the silent magnates that he was a fair man and that this would be a fair hearing, which meant all potential claimants should be allowed to make a case for the throne.
Robert looked on as a flamboyantly dressed man, who had arrived in Berwick with a large entourage the week before, crossed the dais to kneel before the English king.
Bishop Bek’s voice boomed again through Norham’s hall. ‘Will you, Sir Florence, Count of Holland, accept the judgement of the illustrious King Edward of England, Duke of Gascony, Lord of Ireland, conqueror of Wales and overlord of Scotland? And do you agree, before all present, that he has the legal right to try your case for the throne of this kingdom?’
The colourful count bent low before the throne and, as the nine men before him had, answered in the affirmative. There were only three men waiting now on the left-hand side of the dais.
Next, it was John Comyn’s turn to walk the platform to the throne. When the Lord of Badenoch knelt, Robert noticed he did not incline his head as much as the others. Indeed, the lord’s rigid body hardly seemed to bend at all. Robert felt a nudge and glanced at his brother. Edward nodded along the row of men beside them, past their father, to where a pale youth with lank black hair was standing. It was John Comyn’s eldest son and heir, who shared the lord’s name. Robert had seen him several times since the assembly at Birgham the year before, although they had never spoken. The youth’s gaze was transfixed by his father’s kneeling form and a flush mottled his wan cheeks. His expression was one of pride.
‘Does he really think his father has a hope of being chosen?’ muttered Edward.
‘He must know he doesn’t,’ Robert murmured back. ‘Comyn isn’t even pressing his claim. He wants Balliol to be king. Grandfather reckons he just wanted his claim put on record, a formality.’
Young John glanced round, his look of pride shifting to one of hostile dislike as he met the gaze of the Bruce brothers.
Robert’s attention moved to the men gathered on the king’s right, now joined by the Count of Holland and John Comyn. Most, like Comyn, didn’t seem truly to believe their claims were strong enough to gain them the throne. Despite the king’s assertion of a fair hearing everyone knew that in reality there were only two men in this competition. Those two were the last to step forward and submit to the king’s authority. First came John Balliol, eager and smiling.
‘If he bows any lower he’ll snap,’ whispered Edward.
Next came the Lord of Annandale and it was Robert’s turn to feel pride swell within him. His grandfather knelt slowly, with a pained expression, his huge frame protesting at the awkward position into which it was forced. But even as he bowed the lord lost not one inch of his authority.
Robert studied the English king while his grandfather was addressed by Bishop Bek. He could discern very little emotion in those grey eyes, except perhaps a distant sadness, but maybe he just thought he saw that, for tidings of Queen Eleanor’s death had preceded the king. They had all heard how Edward had ordered masons to erect monumental crosses, marking the places where his wife’s body had rested during its procession from Lincoln to London. Robert had imagined these stony pillars of grief dotted along England’s countryside. He had heard a great deal about the king: his valour as a crusader, his skill and fearlessness as a warrior, his canniness as a statesman and his passion for hunting and the joust. He had been surprised by Edward’s cold and threatening demeanour, for it seemed so at odds with the man his father had always spoken of with such admiration.
His grandfather rose, stoop-backed, to join the other claimants. As Bishop Bek addressed the assembled men, Robert felt a rush of impatience. Since the moment his grandfather had led him on to the Moot Hill, the old man’s fight had entered his blood. If his grandfather was named king by Edward, he in turn would be heir to the throne, second in line only to his father. Still, Robert tried to force away his impatience, knowing the hearing would not be over for months, maybe longer. After today, once his grandfather’s petition had been lodged, the Bruces would be returning to their homes like everyone else, to await the verdict of Scotland’s new overlord.
19
‘She’s looking at you.’
Robert took a mouthful of plum-dark wine as Edward leaned in close, his voice filled with mirth. ‘Oh?’ Robert leaned nonchalantly against the wall, but his gaze darted furtively across the bobbing heads of the dancers to the other side of the hall.
His brother laughed, seeing the look. ‘No, not really.’
‘Cur,’ muttered Robert. He scanned the crowd, his eyes searching for the scarlet veil that had been there only a few minutes ago. The hall was filled with music, the whine of bagpipes and the thud of drums rising over the footfalls of th
e men and women. The trestles and boards, on which the feast had been presented earlier, had been pushed aside to make room for dancing. A line of laughing women criss-crossed back to meet the men, obscuring Robert’s view. He looked away and, as he did so, caught a flash of scarlet up on the dais. It was her.
Her name was Eva and she was a daughter of Earl Donald of Mar, one of his grandfather’s staunchest allies. Robert had met her on several occasions over the past year, her father journeying to Annandale to support the lord through the hearing. She wasn’t the first woman he had noticed: there were one or two girls in Lochmaben who had captured his attention during his residency, including the niece of one of his grandfather’s vassals, who had made him a man in a cobweb-strung barn on the edge of the woods. But Eva was different. She was of his rank and, as a young lady of standing with education, was far more self-assured than the town girls. Robert feared she wouldn’t be so easy to impress.
As he watched, Eva bent down beside her father, draping an arm companionably around the elderly earl’s broad shoulders. The silk folds of her scarlet veil, held in place by a circlet of braid, slipped over her shoulder, framing her face. A few strands of honey-blonde hair floated around her cheeks, flushed with heat and wine. She smiled as the Lord of Annandale leaned over and said something to the earl. Robert pushed himself determinedly from the wall, ignoring his brother’s grin, and made his way through the crowd. There was a rush of skirts and breathless laughter as a woman twirled in front of him and away again, back into the arms of a waiting man. Robert lifted his goblet to his lips and tipped the last of the wine into his mouth, then handed the vessel to a passing servant. He wasn’t a squire tonight. Tonight, he was the grandson of the man who might be king.