by Robyn Young
Robert’s emotions found a vent and, like a blast of steam, erupted, scalding and sudden. ‘And if you drop this woman and child at Edward’s feet, Father, how will he reward your obedience? With a throne, do you think? Or just a pat on the head?’
The Bruce straightened, his face draining. His hand jerked, jolting the king’s order from the table top. It struck the wooden boards of the dais, the great wax seal cracking down the centre. ‘You will do your duty,’ said the lord, his voice strained, ‘or you will lose your lands.’ Reaching for the goblet, he seized it. ‘Either way, you will get from my sight.’
The breeze cooled Robert’s skin as he looked out upon the stone-blue dawn. He was bathed in pale moonlight, sweat glistening in the ridges and hollows of his ribs and torso. In just over a month he would celebrate the day of his birth. Those twenty-three years were showing in his body, grown tall like his grandfather’s, shaped and honed by more than a decade of training. His broad shoulders tapered into a long back, moulded with muscle, and his arms were corded with veins. Fine dark hair had started to sprout on his chest this past year, running in a faint line to his navel, then on to thicken again. Here and there scars marbled his skin, many of them injuries sustained in training, others from battle. It was a man’s body, not a boy’s any longer. And yet, for all this strength, he felt more powerless than ever.
Below, the motte of Lochmaben Castle sloped down to the jumble of buildings in the bailey. Beyond the palisade, trees, cloud-like in the moonlight, stretched to the Kirk Loch, which glimmered like a mirror. Memories of this place in other times flooded through him in a rising tide. He had come here a boy of thirteen summers, freed from his father’s glowering presence. It was here in Lochmaben that he learned to hunt and sat in council with the men of the realm; here that he first lay with a woman, here where his family mourned the loss of the throne and where his grandfather bestowed upon him the right to claim it back. It was here, in the heart of Annandale, that the sword of the Earl of Mar had made him a knight. Here, where he married Isobel and conceived his daughter.
But despite the web of history that bound him to this place, Robert felt like a stranger. The landscape didn’t recognise him any more, nor did the spirits of the past. It had been this way since he had helped seize the Stone of Destiny from the altar at Scone Abbey. His grandfather, once so clear in his mind, had grown faded, as if even his memories were abandoning him, slipping away from the awful truth. It had been a relief to spend the winter in Carlisle. Returning to Scotland to raise his father’s vassals for the assault on Douglas’s castle had been as a stone in his heart.
Hearing the creak of the bed behind him, Robert turned from the window. The chamber that had once been his grandfather’s was in shadow, the fire in the hearth emitting a dull copper glow. The round room on the first floor of the keep was bare, despite the best efforts of the servants to make it comfortable for its new inhabitant. The ancient bed, repaired after the damage sustained in the Comyns’ occupation, had been draped with linen sheets and woollen blankets. The few chests containing his belongings – clothing, armour, weapons – had been stacked against one wall beneath a familiar threadbare tapestry that showed knights on black coursers hunting a white stag. Pillows scattered the floor and the bedcovers were rumpled. From between the sheets, a lithe leg had slipped its way out. The woollen blanket had rucked up over the thigh, where it piled haphazardly, then fell away to reveal the curve of a back and the smooth blades of shoulders, half hidden by a mass of dark hair. An arm, which had stretched up and folded under a pillow, revealed the swell of a breast, pressed into the mattress. In stirring, Katherine had turned her face to him, but her eyes remained closed. After a moment, her breaths evened out.
Not wanting to leave his daughter in Carlisle, Robert had brought his wife’s former maid and the wet nurse, Judith, with him to Annandale, along with an escort of knights and squires. Three nights ago, after a feast he had arranged for some of his father’s vassals, through which he had sat in silence and drank, Robert had called Katherine to his chamber. The maid hadn’t resisted when, his fingers fumbling from too much wine, his breath hot, he had taken her to his bed, desperate for some release, for something into which he could pour his frustrations. The next night she had returned of her own accord.
Robert stared at Katherine’s sleeping form, then crossed barefoot to his clothes, heaped on the floor. He pulled on his braies, hose and shirt quietly, not wanting to wake her. She had given him all he needed tonight. Taking up his hide boots, his cloak and sword, he opened the door and made his way through the darkened tower.
At the bottom, he was met by the lanky, fair-haired figure of Christopher Seton, whose turn it had been to guard the keep through the night watch. Christopher was one of the men who had accompanied Robert on this assignment, the notable exception being his brother, who remained to assist in Carlisle’s defence. Edward had wanted to stay in Annandale at the end of the war and had not settled well in the city. Sullen and angry, he had taken to staying out most nights in the taverns, wasting money on cock fights and starting brawls. When he could, he avoided Robert and their father, blaming them for his exile in England.
‘Good day, sir,’ said Christopher, opening the door for him.
Robert nodded a greeting to the squire. Not wanting to be drawn into conversation, he headed on down the steep track that wound around the motte, buckling his sword belt. The weapon’s weight was a familiar one, for he wore it everywhere now. Heading past the kennels, he heard a whine and saw Uathach slinking from her wooden hut to greet him through the staked fence. He clicked his tongue softly at her, but continued on to the gate in the palisade, which led to the town. He had no destination in mind, only a need for the solitude of the dawn. The castle would wake soon, busy with another day, more vassals arriving for the fight. He wanted the clarity that came with the quiet. Tomorrow he was to leave and march on Douglasdale at the head of his father’s men to abduct a woman and child. He needed to hush the voices of the past before then.
Out of the gates he walked, out into the streets. Despite the early hour there were a few people awake already. He passed a figure in a hooded cloak, hunched outside a blacksmith’s, an old black dog sprawled on the ground close by. Further down, he saw a man and a woman locked in an embrace in the shadows of a doorway. The rumble of cartwheels came from somewhere up ahead. In the market square the church cast a squat shadow in the moonlight. Robert paused in the empty space, assailed by hazy memories of days golden with sun and promise. He remembered riding through these streets after a hunt, the horses dusty and tired, the men calling jubilantly to his grandfather. He remembered the pride he felt hearing the respect in their voices.
Robert continued on across the square. The simple act of walking was pleasing and he found himself calmed by the momentum of it. Once or twice he thought he heard footsteps behind him, but when he turned he saw no one. Soon, the rhythm of his own stride was all he perceived and when he came to the limits of the town he didn’t stop, but carried on into the woods, which echoed with birdsong. Walking the well-worn tracks of men and animals, he came to the edge of the loch, his thoughts consumed by his grandfather.
A man who breaks his oath isn’t worth his breath.
The old man had so often said this. Robert had pledged fealty to King Edward and sworn an oath to Humphrey de Bohun and the Knights of the Dragon to defend the king’s cause. Despite the conflict warring inside him since the theft of the stone, he couldn’t refute this. A true knight, a man of honour, would not break his word. More than anything his grandfather had taught him that. But what if a man had taken oaths that contradicted one another? What then should he do?
The moon was high and small now, its glow weakened by advancing daylight. The loch was glassy, disturbed only by the shadows of birds flitting over the surface. Across the water, the castle keep loomed above the trees. Robert could see plumes of smoke rising from the bailey. The servants would be awake now, preparing the morning meal, s
toking the hearths, feeding the animals. Behind him, from the still of the woods, six crows cast into the sky.
Robert closed his eyes and breathed in the hush when the birds had gone. It was then that he heard it: a crackle of twigs and the rustle of undergrowth. He went for his sword and drew it as he turned, eyes scanning the gloom. His gaze alighted on a stooped figure in a hooded brown cloak, heading towards him. As he saw the large black dog loping at the figure’s side he realised he had seen them outside the castle gates. He had taken the hunched figure for a beggar. As the figure passed out of the shadows of the trees he saw whoever it might be was leaning on a stick, their gait awkward. Long ashen hair fell in twisted hanks from beneath the low-pulled cowl. Robert caught a glimpse of a wrinkled throat, a sagging jaw and a down-turned mouth. ‘Who are you?’
The figure pushed back the cloak’s hood.
Robert stared at the hard face, creased with age. It was many years since he had seen her, but he knew her instantly. ‘Affraig?’ he murmured, lowering his sword.
‘I followed you from the castle.’ Her voice was rasping. ‘I knew it must be you by your clothes.’
Robert glanced at his cloak, decorated with the arms of Carrick.
‘I would not have known you otherwise.’ Affraig’s abrasive voice softened with wonder. ‘The boy I knew is gone. A man stands before me.’
Her Gaelic was like a long forgotten song. Since the death of his mother, Robert had mostly spoken French or Scots. He shook his head, stunned by the sight of her. ‘When did you come here?’ He thought of the journey from Carrick, a few days on foot, perhaps longer for a woman of her years. ‘Why did you?’
‘Brigid came to me. Her husband heard it on the road from Edinburgh that you were here. He said the Earl of Carrick was raising the men of Annandale.’
‘Brigid?’ A memory of a whip-thin girl with ratty hair came into Robert’s mind.
‘Is it Carrick you are raising your father’s men for?’ There was hope in the question, but flint in her tone.
‘Carrick?’ Robert frowned. Did the old woman know something his vassals had not told him? ‘There is no fight in Carrick.’
‘Fight, no. But struggle, yes. Great struggle.’ As she limped towards him, the black dog followed.
Robert saw that the animal had white, blind eyes. He wondered if it was one of the dogs she’d had when he had known her – that had bitten his brother, Alexander.
‘It has been hard for us, caught between Ayr and Galloway.’ Her haggard face was grim. ‘Soldiers of the Englishman, the one they call Percy, have pressed in on us from both sides. Disputes against them are silenced before they can be raised, by bribes or by violence. It is worse beyond our borders. Brigid brings me tidings from Ayrshire and many others come, begging for my aid to ease their suffering. Much suffering there is, in the towns filled with English soldiers and in the villages, where taxes have taken the food from children’s mouths. I have heard of men hanged without trial or judgement, houses looted, women—’ She halted. When she continued, her voice was low. ‘It is worse since the rising of William Wallace, but at least he brings hope to his people. I came, Sir Robert, to see if our hope may lie in you. Our lord.’
For a long moment, Robert didn’t know what to say. More than anything he felt angry: at her for bringing tidings it was the responsibility of Andrew Boyd and his other vassals to tell him and for assuming it was her place to, and at himself for not knowing his own people were suffering. ‘I am here on my father’s orders,’ he said, tight-lipped. ‘But I intend to return to Carrick as soon as my task here is done. I know Sir Henry Percy. I will talk to him personally.’
‘Talk to him?’ The lines on Affraig’s face deepened. ‘When I learned of your alliance with the English and their king at the start of the war, I did not at first believe it. Your father, yes. But you? Your grandfather would weep for these days, had he lived to see them.’
Robert’s eyes narrowed, anger struggling to break free. ‘You forget my grandfather served both Edward and Henry. I am not the first Bruce to serve an English king.’
‘Served them he may have, but not at the expense of his kingdom. He never would have done so if it meant harm to his own people!’ Her bony finger shot out. ‘You and your father have left your lands to wither! For more than three years the people of Carrick have been without a lord.’
The dog, hearing the words spitting through her teeth, began to growl.
Robert stood his ground, towering over Affraig, his nose clogging with the smell of mouldering earth that came off her. Her cloak was caked with mud. ‘You dare speak to me in this manner? You know nothing of my life!’
She didn’t flinch at his tone, or the sword that had risen in his grasp. ‘I know you were passed a solemn inheritance that you have turned your back on. That I know.’
He went to speak, then moved past her, not wanting to hear more of her sour invective.
‘What of the throne of our people, carted to a foreign court?’ she called behind him, her voice as harsh as a crow’s caw. ‘What of the hill that stands empty?’
He turned, fear and shame leaping in him, thinking she must somehow know of his part in the theft.
‘For centuries Scotland’s kings were made at Scone. Will there not be another to stand upon the Moot Hill and hear the names of his forefathers recited from the pages of history? Our kingdom has lost its soul, Robert.’
He could see no accusation in her face any more, only sorrow. She couldn’t know what he had done. If she did, she would curse him where he stood. Some part of him wished she would.
‘Your family held a claim to the throne for over half a century. I do not understand why you do not fight for it, as was your grandfather’s wish. Or why you would serve the man who has taken your right from you?’
Something flashed in Robert’s mind. He remembered the day his grandfather told him he was to be dubbed, the day his father was forced to resign the earldom of Carrick. He had seen Affraig in Lochmaben talking with the old man. She had touched his face with strange affection. How could he have forgotten? ‘It was you? You told my grandfather to pass the claim to me?’
Her lips flattened in a thin line. ‘Fool that I was. I should have seen then that it was your father’s mould you had been made in.’
Robert’s face flushed. ‘Leave. You have no business with me or my family. Not any more.’
As he strode through the trees, cuffing aside branches, her voice echoed at his back.
‘Leave, I shall. There is no hope here.’
47
The boy grasped the mossy stones of the parapet wall and pulled himself up, breathing hard from the climb. Behind him his father’s banner snapped in the breeze. His pale blue eyes narrowed as he squinted over the battlements into the sunlight that was reflected in the surface of the small loch that lay beyond the castle walls. From out of the green depths of the forest that encircled the stronghold an army was slowly emerging, men and horses forming up beyond the dazzling water, helms and lances glinting. The boy’s eyes settled on a standard at the head of the company. A red chevron on white.
‘Bastards,’ he murmured. Dropping down, the boy turned to his father’s banner, three white stars on billowing blue. The sight of the flag fuelled him with defiance. ‘Let them come,’ he breathed, ducking through the door at the tower’s top and sprinting down the steps inside.
As he reached the floor below, he saw the door to his parents’ chamber was ajar. The gap was filled with firelight and conversation came from within. The boy halted, stifling his breaths so as not to be heard. His mother’s voice sounded, soft and troubled.
‘I shall speak to them. They will parley with me, surely?’
‘The Earl of Carrick leads them, my lady. The young Bruce is a puppet for the English king, so it is said.’
The boy moved closer. That was Dunegall, the captain his father had left to command the garrison. The man was stalwart, but as old as the hills and afflicted with the gout.
/> ‘I will address them from the gate, my lady, and demand to know why they are trespassing on Lord Douglas’s lands.’
‘I think it is clear why they have come, Dunegall. With my husband in the company of William Wallace they have come for James and me. They mean to punish him through us. I have no doubt of it.’
The boy stepped back with a frown at his name and the threat in her words.
‘Do not fear, my lady, these walls are stout.’
‘After all the Treacherer has taken our stores are almost empty. We cannot stay here indefinitely. The Bruce and his men will starve us out, if they do not break down the gates and force their way in. No, I will go to them.’
Lady Douglas seemed to falter. But when she spoke again, her voice was flat. James recognised the resolve in her tone. He’d been confronted with it many a time when he’d misbehaved.
‘I will tell them James is not here. Perhaps, if I give myself to them, they will be content. Whatever happens to me, Dunegall, you must promise to deliver James safe to his father.’
James stumbled back from the door. Without waiting to hear any more, he raced on, down through the tower. If his father were here he would ride out on his charger with a roar that would shake the foundations of the keep and smash through them all with the fury of hell, not stopping until the ground was drenched in their blood or his own. Either way, he would not let his wife face an army. Well, James could not ride out – his father’s men had taken all their horses, except his mother’s hobby and a few nags – but weapons he did have. He kept his sword, the one he had trained with for the past year, in the room where he slept, but the guardroom was closer. Anyhow, he wanted a man’s weapon.
On the other side of the loch, Robert formed up with the men of Annandale, as the foot soldiers continued to tramp out of the trees behind. To either side of him were Nes and Walter, a knight from Carrick, who had served him well in Carlisle and whom he’d appointed as his banner-bearer. Walter held aloft his standard, the chevron a bold red arrow pointing to the sky. The hooves of their horses sank in the boggy ground around the loch, the grassy banks of which were alive with waterfowl. Robert glimpsed flickers of bronze and silver, the sunlight catching under the birds’ wings as they darted through the reeds, disturbed by the gathering men. Beyond the body of water, the castle of Lord Douglas rose from a grassy mound. It looked much like Lochmaben: a stone keep atop a motte reinforced with clay and timber, and a bailey surrounded by a palisade. The only real difference was the terrain, which was more thickly wooded.