by Robyn Young
Hallelujah! Long live the king!
In his mind he saw his father trudging towards Simon de Montfort and the rebel barons.
By God, I will never submit to an enemy. They will know that.
They will know that.
With the cheers still thundering through Westminster Abbey, he reached up and lifted the crown from his head. It took a few moments, but gradually the praises and exclamations died away, people glancing at one another, wondering what he was doing.
‘I stand before you as your king.’
Applause greeted the words, but faded into hush as Edward handed the crown to John de Warenne, standing on the dais with the other magnates.
The king turned to face the throng. ‘But I swear, before God and all here present, that I shall not wear the crown of this kingdom until I have recovered the lands lost by my father.’
He had been headstrong then, fired by ambition. Edward doubted the older barons, those who served his father, had taken him seriously at the time. Most likely they had seen it as a bold statement with which to begin his rule. But over the years, he had shown them he meant what he had said, first with Wales and Ireland, then Gascony and Scotland, lands his father and the kings before him had allowed to be challenged time and time again. There was just one more relic to find, which his men were scouring Ireland for, then his dominion would be complete. Now he had secured the Crown of Arthur and the Stone of Destiny there was no need to keep the details of the prophecy within the confines of the order and his clerics had been busy these past few months, spreading word of his achievements to the people. Already the poets were proclaiming him as the saviour of Britain, a new Arthur, who was delivering them from the doom foretold in a lost prophecy of Merlin.
Ah God! How often Merlin said the truth in his prophecies, the chronicler Peter Langtoft had written. Now are the islanders all joined together. And Albany reunited to the regalities, of which king Edward is proclaimed lord.
And here on the altar before the shrine of the Confessor were those regalities. Curtana for England, the Crown of Arthur for Wales and, for Albany – Scotland – the Stone of Destiny. He had done what he had set out to do all those years ago in exile in Gascony, when the seed of his ambition had been sown. Yet for the presentation of the stone, this most auspicious of ceremonies, Edward stood alone. This was supposed to have been a great day for him and for England, but instead of praising his name, the barons were cursing it.
Returning from Scotland the year before, he had buried his brother, Edmund, whose body had been brought back from Gascony, where war lumbered on. Through the marriage of his daughter, Bess, to the Count of Holland he had made a new alliance. But it wasn’t enough to win him the war; to do that he needed money. Edward had turned first to the Church, but the new Archbishop of Canterbury, an indomitable man called Robert Winchelsea, had denied him. In retaliation he outlawed the men of the Church and sent his royal knights to seize their goods, thinking the hard approach would make them fold, as they always had. Winchelsea, however, had proved of sterner stuff and had strengthened their resolve by his own example, persuading them to endure the king’s harsh measures. All through these delays the war in France continued, Edward’s forces losing a battle outside Bayonne with heavy casualties, one of whom was his half-uncle, William de Valence. The formidable Earl of Pembroke had been among his staunchest supporters since his exile in Gascony and his loss was a terrible blow to Edward, whose allies were becoming few and far between. The stark truth of this had become apparent in a parliament at Salisbury.
At the parliament, where he requested further service in Gascony from his barons, Edward had been faced with their blunt, unanimous rejection. The parliament, one of the most humiliating moments of his reign, ended with the barons walking out, one after another. Even his most stalwart supporters, the men of the Round Table, had defied him. The barons’ defiant exodus had been a shocking reality. Shock turned to fear when spies informed him that no fewer than four of his earls – Norfolk, Warwick, Arundel and Hereford – had met to protest against his demands and to rally their supporters. The young Knights of the Dragon, while not openly defying him, were not supporting him as wholeheartedly as they had, caught between faithfulness to their king and to their fathers, whose estates and titles they would soon inherit. Edward had built the Round Table to imbue his vassals with glory and a sense of unity, like the mythic warriors who graced Arthur’s court. Now, almost at the moment his plans had come to fruition, the table was breaking apart. The spectre of civil war loomed black before him. He would not go through that again.
With a supreme effort, he had choked down his pride and made peace with Winchelsea. Now, he would do the same with his barons. He had no choice. The French war, which had proven so detrimental to his reign, required a conclusion. There was still trouble in Scotland, but he could not focus on two fronts at once. Tomorrow, outside this abbey that had seen him crowned king, he would stand before his recalcitrant vassals and beg for their patience. He was going to war in France. If he did not return, his son, Edward of Caernarfon, would take the throne. Arthur’s crown was not enough. He needed to show them he was still their warrior king.
Hearing footsteps echo through the abbey, Edward turned to see one of his knights.
‘My lord. I have brought the prisoners. They await you in the nave.’
Edward headed out through the screen, leaving the workmen to fix the wooden seat of the coronation chair in place over the Stone of Destiny.
In the nave between six knights were three figures. They were pale even though it was late summer, for he had not allowed them to leave the confines of their chambers except to walk each morning in the Tower’s inner ward, which was shaded by high walls. Aside from this, they looked in good health. Edward hadn’t ill-treated any of his Scottish prisoners, not even John Balliol, who was incarcerated in a small, but well-appointed room in the Salt Tower, with servants to attend to his needs. Despite this fact, the three Comyn men watched his approach with hate in their eyes.
As he came to stand before them, the heads of the Red and Black Comyns met his stare, but Badenoch’s son looked away. ‘I have a proposition for you,’ Edward told them. ‘I am willing to forgive your betrayal and your part in the alliance with France. I am even willing to restore your lands.’ Edward looked at young John Comyn whose wife, Joan de Valence, had been ordered back to England on the eve of the war. ‘And to return your wife and child.’
John shifted on his feet and the Earl of Buchan frowned, intrigued. John’s father, the Lord of Badenoch, remained unreadable.
The king continued, his voice tight. This wasn’t something he wanted to do, but with so few of his own magnates willing to serve him in Scotland or France, he had little choice. ‘All this I will do, in return for your service.’
Buchan looked as if he were about to speak, but Badenoch was quicker. ‘Service, my lord?’
‘In Scotland, against the rebels. My men have met with Douglas and Wallace in Irvine, but violence continues under the banner of Moray in the north. If you agree to my terms you will join the forces of Sir John de Warenne and Hugh de Cressingham at Berwick. From there, you will raise your vassals and lead them north to defeat Moray. Once the insurrection is ended and I have the instigators in my custody, I will honour my word.’ When none of them answered, Edward said harshly, ‘Well? What say you?’
Badenoch glanced at Buchan, who gave a nod. Turning to the king, the Red Comyn went down on one knee. ‘We will swear to it, Lord King.’
55
On the edge of the woods, the four men reined in their horses. Jumping down into the long grass, Robert handed the reins to Nes, who took them in silence.
‘We should accompany you,’ advised Alexander.
Christopher added his agreement.
As Robert turned to them the evening sun poured gold into his eyes. He raised his hand to shield his face from the glare. The salt smell of the sea was in the air and he could hear the distant rush of
waves on Turnberry beach. ‘I’ll go alone.’ Leaving them on the borders of the trees, he walked into the green shade.
The way at first was easy, the tracks made by deer and other animals forming natural paths through the undergrowth. The sweetness of sap and pine surrounded him and sunlight dappled the forest floor. Somewhere, he could hear the bubbling of hidden streams and memories of boyish laughter echoed to him in the chuckling water. In his mind’s eye he saw his brothers, Thomas and Niall, running through the woods ahead, swinging sticks at the bracken and yelling battle cries. He was ahead of them, running fast, fearlessly leaping fallen boughs. Trailing behind came Alexander. After all these years these woods were achingly familiar, but Robert walked them with a different sense now, a sense of ownership and responsibility.
Gradually the land climbed up and his breath deepened as he ascended one earthy ridge after another, grasping hold of gnarled limbs and snaking roots. As he slid down the last bank the woods thinned, opening out into a valley at the end of which rose a hill studded with gorse. Under the hill was a dwelling, beneath the shadow of an oak. Walking out of the trees, Robert worried that she might not be here, but as he drew closer he saw a thin coil of smoke coming from the roof vent.
The house was a forlorn sight. Weeds and bushes grew close to the walls and filled the interior of the empty animal pen. The timbers on the façade were rotten and the lintel over the door had warped. He half expected two black dogs to come rushing out, but the place was quiet. Approaching, Robert saw that the oak was cluttered with webs of twigs, each containing different objects, from a braided ribbon to a bundle of dried flowers, a wooden doll to a scroll-case. There were many more destinies here now, some weather-worn, others new. A tree full of prayers. As he reached the door, he stared up into the higher boughs. For a moment he thought it wasn’t there, then he saw it: a lattice of bone-white twigs, bound together around a length of mossy rope, knotted in a noose. The twine looped around the branch above was frayed, holding the web suspended by a thread.
As he reached for the peeling door the voice of his father sounded in his mind, harsh with scorn. Forcing it away, Robert curled his hand into a fist to knock. His grandfather had believed in the old woman’s magic and that was all that mattered. This would be an honouring of the old man and a chance for him to swear again the oath he had broken. A chance to make amends.
Lochmaben, Scotland
1292 AD
The cold raised gooseflesh on Robert’s skin as he stood before the altar, the flagstones numbing his feet. The candles were struggling to stay alight in the draught that blew in beneath the doors. He could hear the wind moaning between the buildings of the bailey. The dogs in the kennels were barking and the gates of the palisade banged in the gusts. All through the long night he had listened to the growling storm and the hail dashing the chapel’s windows, his hair drying cold against his scalp after the ritual bath. Dawn had broken two hours earlier, but the sky was as black as midnight.
The priest at the altar read a psalm from his breviary, the words of God raised against the tempest. Apart from the priest and Robert there were only five men present for a ceremony that should have been a much grander affair. His grandfather towered over the others, his mane of silver hair wisping about his face in the air. With the lord were three of his vassals and the elderly Earl Donald of Mar, whose daughter Robert had kissed by the loch the week before, on the night they learned John Balliol would be king. The absence of Robert’s father was palpable, a phantom all of them pretended not to see. Robert had been told he had set his seal to the agreement resigning the earldom of Carrick, along with the right to claim the throne. Shortly afterwards he had left.
As the priest finished the psalm, one of the lord’s vassals came towards Robert, holding a surcoat, tunic and a pair of boots. A blast of wind blew open the chapel doors, slamming them against the wall. Several candles guttered and winked out. One of the other knights hastened down the aisle, while Robert dressed. Over his plain tunic went the surcoat that had once belonged to his father, decorated with the arms of Carrick. It was stained and too big around the gut and shoulders. Robert hadn’t wanted to begin his knighthood in another man’s clothing, least of all his father’s, but there had been no chance to have a new one made. It would be one of the first things he did.
Now it was the turn of the old Earl of Mar to step forward, bearing a broadsword. All through Robert’s vigil the sword had lain on the altar. The pommel was a bronze ball and the grip was bound with leather. He couldn’t see the blade, for it was inside a scabbard, but he could tell it was long, several inches longer than any he’d owned. A man’s weapon. A knight’s weapon. Placing it on the altar last night, his grandfather told him it had come from the Holy Land. Made of Damascus steel, it had spilled the blood of the infidel upon the sands where Lord Jesus Christ had walked. The scabbard was attached to a belt that was coiled in Earl Donald’s hands.
Robert met the old earl’s gaze as he looped the belt around his waist and fastened it. As he stepped back, he adjusted the broadsword so it hung down from his hip at a slight angle, the hilt just across his body so he could draw it. After a set of spurs was fixed to his boots, he was invested and ready to swear the oath of knighthood.
At a nod from his grandfather Robert knelt, the blade stiff beside him as the earl drew his own sword.
‘Do you swear to defend your kingdom?’ Earl Donald questioned, his voice struggling against the roar of the wind. ‘Do you swear to serve God? And do you swear to protect the lands bestowed upon you, carrying out any duties to which you are obligated by your fief?’
‘I swear it,’ said Robert, bowing his head as the earl raised his blade and brought it down upon his right shoulder, where it lay heavily for a moment, before being lifted away.
Robert expected the earl to tell him to rise, but Donald stepped back and the Lord of Annandale moved into his place. Robert looked up into his grandfather’s craggy face. Those fierce black eyes, glittering in the half-light, bored right through him.
‘I want you to swear, Robert, as one born of the line of Malcolm Canmore, as a Bruce and as my grandson, that you will defend our family’s claim to the throne of this kingdom, no matter who sits upon it in defiance of our right.’ His voice was commanding. ‘Swear this to me before these witnesses, in this house of the Lord.’
Robert paused before answering. ‘I swear it.’
For a moment, his grandfather’s gaze continued to pierce him, then the lord’s hard face broke into a rare smile and he nodded to Earl Donald to conclude the ceremony.
‘Then arise, Sir Robert, for by this oath and by the girding of the sword, you are made a knight.’
As Robert stood, his grandfather’s eyes shone. ‘Come,’ he said to the others, ‘let us break our fast and warm our hearts with wine in my chambers. We have much to give thanks for.’ He looked back at Robert. ‘For God has granted me a fine new son.’
When the others moved to the doors, Robert hung back, his mind filled with a question that had been troubling him since yesterday, when his grandfather told him he would be knighted.
‘What is it?’ asked the old man, frowning at his hesitation.
The wind rushed in as the knights opened the chapel doors, blowing out the rest of the candles and sending dead leaves scattering across the stone floor.
‘Forgive me, Grandfather,’ Robert said quietly, ‘but how am I to defend our claim? The moment John Balliol is seated upon the Stone of Destiny he will become king and all his heirs after him. I do not see how I can prevent that from happening.’
His grandfather put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I am not asking you to prevent it. Robert, the Stone of Destiny does not make a king any more than a well-bred horse or a fine sword makes a knight. Balliol may sit on the stone, he may be called king, but it doesn’t change the fact that his blood is thinner than mine. It may take a year, it make take a hundred, but so long as the claim is kept alive, I believe time will show that ours is the truer
line.’
Reaching out, Robert knocked on the dwelling’s peeling door. After a moment he heard the snap of a latch. The door swung open and Affraig appeared. Her expression of surprise shifted quickly into suspicion, but rather than speak, she opened the door wider and moved aside, allowing him to enter. He did so after a pause, realising, as he was forced to duck under the warped lintel, how much he had grown since he had come here last. The cramped interior, where bundles of herbs were strung from the cobwebbed rafters, offered little more room. The place stank. Robert caught the astringency of sweat and urine beneath the bitter smell of the plants.
There was a fire burning in the centre of the room beneath the vent in the roof. On her dishevelled bed a black dog was stretched out. Robert looked round as Affraig closed the door and moved past him to a stool where she sat, her brown dress drooping around her. Taking up a bowl filled with some dark liquid, she pressed it to her lips and drank, her wrinkled mouth slurping at the edge. Robert crouched awkwardly before the fire. There were a few logs piled there. Picking one up, he thrust it into the heart of the flames, acutely aware that she hadn’t stopped staring at him. He had expected her to ask him what he was doing here. He had an answer in his mind, but no question to reply to. The silence swelled until he could bear it no longer. ‘I need you to do something for me.’
Affraig lowered the bowl into her lap and wiped her mouth with her hand. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, stretched thinly over the bones of her cheeks and the prominent ridge of her brow. Her ash-white hair was pulled back from her face and bound with strips of leather to fall thickly down her back. There was still something striking about her, in the strong bones of her face, but it was marred by the shabby dress that hung shapeless on her stooped form, her black fingernails, the scalp flakes caught in the knots of her hair and the liver spots on her crooked hands. She evoked in Robert a strange mix of disgust and fascination, disdain and awe.