Insurrection

by Robyn Young

  ‘I will second the proposal.’

  At the voice, a huge man with a barrel chest and a thatch of white hair pushed forward from the ranks of Comyn’s company. It was the elderly, militant Earl of Strathearn. The man had been a supporter of William Wallace and had joined his raid into Northumberland the previous year. He was married to a sister of the Earl of Buchan, head of the Black Comyns, and was a potent force in the old order of the kingdom.

  Robert looked over at James Stewart and saw, by the frustration in his face, that they would have to allow Comyn a voice, not least if he was supported by a man with the reputation of Strathearn.

  ‘Then you should state your testimony now, Sir John,’ said the high steward finally. ‘For we cannot continue our deliberations any longer. All the while we dally, you can be certain King Edward plans his next campaign.’

  John Comyn looked angry at the steward’s demand for haste, but he turned to the gathering. ‘Very well.’ He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts, then began to speak.

  He was clear and articulate, surprising Robert who had always thought the young man to be a pale shadow of his powerful father.

  John spoke of his father’s position as Justiciar of Galloway and as one of the six guardians elected after the death of King Alexander. He spoke too of his family’s long standing in the realm and of their unequivocal support for the return of his uncle, King John Balliol. It was a clever speech and one that clearly awoke the interest of many men in the clearing, not least because this declaration of support for Balliol was a part of the argument that James Stewart had expressly left out of his endorsement of Robert.

  ‘I stand in the name of King John,’ finished Comyn. ‘As should any who proposes to be our leader.’ As he said this, he looked over at Robert.

  Surprisingly, it was one of Wallace’s men, the brawny Gilbert de la Hay, Lord of Erroll, who challenged the haughty statement. ‘These words would ring sweeter from your mouth had it not been the Comyns who led the nobles from the field at Falkirk, leaving Sir William and his foot soldiers to face the English cavalry alone.’

  Robert, whose aspirations had begun to crumble at Comyn’s speech, felt a spark of hope as he saw Gray and Neil Campbell nodding in agreement.

  John Comyn flushed, but confronted Lord Gilbert at once. ‘At least my father was at Falkirk, standing alongside his countrymen. The man you have nominated as our guardian wasn’t even on the field of battle!’ He pointed at Robert. ‘Perhaps it was simple fear that kept the Bruce away, or maybe it was his old allegiance to King Edward that stopped him lifting his sword?’

  The steward and several others protested, but Robert’s voice rose over them. ‘If my past allegiance to the King of England is to go against my bid, then your present commitment should be noted. You are married to the king’s cousin, after all, and were in his service more recently than I.’

  ‘I forfeited my marriage when my father and I broke from the king’s orders, as it was our intention to do the moment we were freed from the Tower.’ John Comyn spoke over the scornful calls of Edward Bruce. ‘Joan and my daughters are in England. For the sake of my kingdom I have lost my wife and children. What have you sacrificed?’

  The argument continued, swelling out from Robert and John at its centre, to engulf the entire assembly. The steward and Wishart strove to keep order, yelling over the din until they were hoarse, but no one listened. Robert, tearing his livid gaze from Comyn’s, saw open mouths and raised fists. Comyn’s men were facing his. His brother had a hand clamped around his sword, as had John of Atholl. Dungal MacDouall had drawn his. Out of the corner of his eye, Robert noticed a lean, wiry figure in a hooded black robe moving through the crowd. He glimpsed the smooth, clean-shaven jaw of a young man beneath the shadow of the hood. As the man came to stand in the centre of the crowd, he pushed back the cowl, revealing a sharp, striking face and a tonsured head. One of his eyes was blue, the other a strange, milky white. It was some moments before anyone else noticed him.

  Wishart, arguing with Strathearn, halted in mid-sentence. His face changed, his mouth opening in surprise. ‘Praise God, Lamberton, I thought you dead!’

  At the bishop’s ebullient outburst, other men quietened. Gradually, all eyes turned to the newcomer. At the name, Robert realised that this must be William Lamberton, the man Wallace and Wishart had elected to the bishopric of St Andrews, the most eminent diocese in the kingdom.

  ‘My journey to Rome was longer than anticipated, your grace,’ replied Lamberton. His voice was not raised, but it had a strident power to it that caused the last murmurs of discontent around the clearing to fade. ‘But I return to you consecrated in the sight of God by the hand of His Holiness, Pope Boniface. And, it seems,’ he added, his intense gaze taking in the assembly, ‘in a time of need.’

  Wishart was looking Lamberton up and down. ‘How did fortune bring you to us, my friend?’

  ‘A good question,’ answered Lamberton, with a brief, hard smile, ‘with an answer for another time.’ He looked around. ‘I have heard some of what has been proposed here. I would suggest the election of Sir Robert Bruce and Sir John Comyn jointly as guardians. If the men of the realm stand divided on this issue, as they clearly do, then why not remove the object of division and unite the two men whom all of you support, one or the other?’ When no one spoke, Lamberton continued, his voice strengthening. ‘For unity is what is needed. I managed to elicit support for our cause from His Holiness in Rome, but while in Paris I discovered the truce between England and France has been formally agreed.’

  ‘We have heard this too, your grace,’ said James Stewart.

  ‘It is worse than you know, Lord Steward,’ responded Lamberton. ‘The truce is set to be a permanent alliance, cemented in the coming year by the marriage of King Edward to Marguerite, sister of King Philippe. By this alliance our former treaties with King Philippe are to be rescinded. Scotland stands alone.’

  66

  Robert crouched in the wooded hollow, his mail coat settling around him. Picking a twig from the ground, he pushed back the hood of his green cloak, the better to see. Around him in a circle stood a dozen men, clad in similar garments, worn over hauberks to hide the glint of steel. From the leafy canopy above came the chatter of blackbirds and thrushes, disturbed by the intruders. Beyond the lattice of branches, the sky was white with heat. The trees shaded the men from the sun’s ferocity, but the air was thick with humidity and insects that tormented them: midges and flies, ticks that burrowed and lice that could drive a man to madness, prickling on his scalp and groin.

  ‘As we know, the carts will come down this road,’ said Robert, drawing a line through the dry soil with the twig. ‘Heading for Roxburgh.’ He pointed the stick to a lump of rock placed on the ground at the end of the scored line, before drawing a circle at the other end. ‘Sir James and his men will keep a watch for them here, where the ground is higher and they have a clear view of the track. Meanwhile, our forces will be waiting here.’ He sketched two crosses in the dirt either side of the line. ‘Now, we don’t know when exactly the English will arrive, but the scouts believe it will be some time this afternoon, almost certainly before nightfall. Sir John and his men have walked the track.’ He glanced up at his brother-in-law, who nodded.

  Atholl’s curly black hair was hidden beneath his hood. He looked keen. ‘We estimate it will take around ten minutes for the baggage train to reach our positions once they have passed the steward’s company.’

  Robert met the dark gaze of John Comyn. ‘I take it you have chosen someone to watch for Sir James’s signal?’

  Comyn’s pale face was sullen. ‘Fergus will do it,’ he muttered, jerking his head to one of his men, a wiry, athletic-looking Scot, whose arms were folded over his chest.

  Robert glanced at the others with Comyn, most of them his knights, with a few men from Galloway. Their expressions shared a common surliness that he knew had less to do with the approaching enemy and more to do with his men who stood faci
ng them. Of his own people, Atholl was the only one who appeared focused on the plan. Gartnait was frowning, Alexander Seton reserved, Christopher on edge, his eyes on Comyn’s tense group, Neil Campbell nonchalant, picking something from his teeth with a stick he’d carved to a point with his dirk. Edward was staring at John Comyn, his blue eyes filled with loathing.

  ‘Good,’ said Robert grimly, returning to the line he had carved in the dirt. ‘The steward will allow the English to pass into the teeth of our trap, before moving in to block their rear while we close the jaws and—’ Robert stopped, hearing a muttered voice. His eyes settled on Dungal MacDouall, standing to the right of Comyn, wearing a thigh-length mail hauberk under his brown cloak. ‘Do you have something to say?’

  MacDouall’s eyes met his unflinchingly. ‘I think it risky to attempt the ambush this close to the castle. If the garrison at Roxburgh are alerted to the attack they might sally out. Why not let the steward’s force engage and we will ride to aid him?’

  Before Robert could answer, Edward spoke. ‘We’ve been through your objections already, MacDouall. Have you not listened to anything we’ve said?’

  Robert shot his brother a warning look and held up his hand as Dungal spat something beneath his breath. ‘This is the best place for an ambush.’ He spread his hand to encompass the woods around them. ‘The terrain is suitable for our horses and we can attack simultaneously from both sides. We know the train is well defended. The scouts said thirty horsed and almost double on foot, then there are the drivers of the carts. No. This is where we will make a stand. If we act quickly we can destroy their supplies and retreat into the Forest long before the garrison at Roxburgh has a chance to mount any offensive.’

  As Dungal murmured something to John Comyn, Robert swiped irritably at a fly buzzing around his face. The heat was as cloying as treacle, making it hard to breathe. He imagined a Welsh hillside in snowy darkness, fires blazing in the night, bodies strewn around the carts, wounded horses on their knees, crying piteously. He had planned the ambush with Nefyn in mind, but couldn’t deny that it was different here, more dangerous than it had been for the Welsh, able to slip away into the mountains. It was daylight for a start and the terrain although easier for them to attack was just as easy for an enemy to pursue if things went wrong. Dungal’s words caused a worm of doubt to uncoil inside him. Roxburgh Castle was filled to the walls with starving English soldiers, desperate for supplies to reach them. He forced away the concern. It would work. Standing, he tossed the stick aside and met the gaze of his fellow guardian. ‘Are you with me, John? I need to know.’

  After a pause, Comyn’s jaw pulsed and he gave a curt nod.

  ‘For Falkirk,’ said Robert, holding out his hand.

  John took it. Their hands grasped briefly, then fell quickly away.

  The two groups left the hollow, Comyn and his knights heading towards the track, on the other side of which, some distance from the road, the rest of their company was waiting with their horses. Robert and his men moved deeper into the woods, birds flurrying above them into the bleached sky. It was less thickly wooded near the road, affording scant cover, a problem if the English had any scouts riding before the supply train, who might spot them and raise the alarm. Robert had determined that the two companies hide out of sight and earshot to await the signal from the steward.

  Edward glanced back over his shoulder as they walked. ‘I swear that cur MacDouall is intent on fighting every decision you make.’

  Robert looked at him. ‘You cannot blame his resentment of us. Our father killed his.’

  Edward lifted his shoulders carelessly. ‘His father attacked ours. What does he expect? Besides, it was a long time ago.’

  Robert didn’t answer, but lapsed into silence, pushing branches out of his way. In a glade ahead, the rest of his company was waiting, formed in the main of knights from Carrick, including Nes and Walter, and supported by some of Atholl’s and Mar’s men. They were sixty in total, which, combined with John Comyn’s force, would be more than a match for eighty or so English.

  ‘Is the lookout in place?’ Robert asked, heading to Walter, accepting the cup of beer Nes handed to him.

  Walter gestured to the lofty heights of an ancient oak, where Robert could see, through the thicket of leaves, the legs of a man, hanging from either side of one of the higher boughs.

  Finishing the beer, Robert settled down to wait. It could be hours before the signal came. He should get the rest where he could. The trees stretched into green all around him, stark light slanting through wherever there was a break in the cover. These woods formed the southernmost reaches of Selkirk Forest. Here, on the border, the trees were mostly oak, hazel and birch, rather than the soaring pines that filled the Forest’s dark heart. The woodlands were interspersed by hills brushy with heather and steep valleys where the spires of abbeys and towers of castles protruded unexpectedly, all built from the same rose-pink stone.

  Leaning his back against a trunk, Robert looked over at his men, who were sharing around beer and speaking among themselves. All were sweat-soaked and dirty, their clothes soiled from months living in the Forest and travelling from place to place. Many had grown beards, not having the time to shave. Robert rubbed at his chin, coarse with stubble, guessing he must look the same.

  For the past ten months, since he and John Comyn were made joint guardians, they had been engaged in a protracted war against the castles still held by the English, left to defend themselves when King Edward led his army over the border. Without siege engines, they had been unable to launch full-scale assaults and instead had focused on cutting the garrisons off from much needed supplies. The English at Stirling were rumoured to be on the brink of starvation. God willing, Roxburgh would face the same fate if they were successful today. A victory here would be welcome, for the castle was at a highly strategic point, close to the border, and formed the base from which Edward had launched his campaign the year before.

  As Robert’s gaze drifted over his men, Christopher Seton caught his eye. Robert had dubbed the young man at the Christ Mass, a reward for his loyalty these past two years. The squire had initially seemed discomforted by the honour, which had puzzled Robert, but Christopher was gradually beginning to relax into his role as a knight. The others had settled into the arduous business of entrenched warfare in their own ways, some better than others. His brother and Alexander Seton seemed at home in the Forest, planning ambushes and raids, living from day to day. The same went for John of Atholl, whose young son David was serving him as a squire, although the earl clearly missed his wife, who remained in the Forest encampment with the women and children. Robert had left Marjorie there in Christian and Judith’s care. The wet nurse had changed since Katherine’s departure and truly relished taking care of his daughter. Of all of them, Gartnait seemed to find it harder to settle, partly because he disliked the covert form of warfare in which they were engaged – creeping around, he called it. Yet even he had to admit there was no alternative. After the defeat at Falkirk, a pitched battle was out of the question. They had neither the force, nor the single-minded leadership of William Wallace, now abroad, fighting their cause with words in the courts of king and pope.

  Robert’s attention moved to his brother, who was sitting with Neil Campbell. The two were very much alike – the same unruly temperament, edged with a sly sense of humour. Robert wasn’t surprised they had become close. He himself had been slow to trust Campbell, one of Wallace’s staunchest lieutenants, but he hadn’t failed to notice the man’s fearlessness and skill as a fighter, and in time had discovered they had more in common than he’d realised. Neil had come into Wallace’s company early in the rebellion, after the destruction of his family’s lands in Lochawe at the hands of the MacDougalls. In the west the war that had broken out two years ago continued unabated between the MacDougalls, allies of the Comyns and Balliol, and the MacDonald lords of Islay, still acting as agents for King Edward. The head of the MacDonalds had been killed recently and
was succeeded by Angus Og – the man who had offered Robert his spoon all those years ago at the feast in Turnberry Castle. The fact that Neil had suffered the destruction of his lands and loss of his inheritance united him and Robert, still raw from the razing of Lochmaben, in exile. It was a thread that linked many of them.

  King Edward had not returned to continue his destruction, although rumours of an imminent campaign were spreading. He had, however, been busy at a distance, offering parcels of forfeited land to his barons. The Earl of Lincoln had been given the domains of James Stewart, Clifford had the south-west castle of Caerlaverock and Percy was offered more of Balliol’s strongholds in Galloway. At present, though, and until the English could secure the kingdom, the barons could do little with their new lands, while they were menaced by the Scots.

  Staring at his men, arrayed before him, Robert thought of the path he was leading them down. In Irvine, when he made his decision to go for the throne, he had known it would be a lengthy process, but he was starting to wonder just how long. There is a season to everything, James had told him, when Robert had asked the high steward when he thought he should announce his intention to the men of the realm. Have patience for the natural order of things. But the natural order of things seemed, to Robert, to involve more politics, more assaults on supply lines, more tension. More waiting.

  The sun had moved round in the sky and was burning Fergus’s neck. His skin itched and perspiration dribbled down his back. He swiped at a hornet buzzing incessantly around his face. The large insect switched away out of reach. Light played on the pitted trunk of the oak, glistening on the shiny blue backs of beetles that scurried over the bark. Through the boughs beneath him he could see the heads of men and rumps of horses. He had a good view from where he was, the oak’s branches opening before him to the south and east, out over woods lush with summer. Here and there he caught glimpses of the track, which wound into the distance, where the land rose up. Behind him, if he craned his neck, he could see a patch of rose-pink stone in the midst of the foliage: the battlements of Roxburgh Castle.