Kingdom: Insurrection Trilogy Book 3

by Robyn Young

  Alexander finished his solemn retelling of the birth of Christ to a muttering of amens.

  In the quiet that followed, James Douglas lifted his cup. ‘Blessings upon those beyond our circle.’ The young man met Robert’s gaze, his eyes glittering in the firelight. ‘To the missing and the fallen.’

  As Robert raised his goblet his men followed suit, among them Edward and Thomas, Cormac, Gilbert, Malcolm of Lennox, Neil Campbell and David of Atholl. When they were done drinking they lapsed into silence, staring into the flames, each man thinking of those they had lost and those they had left behind.

  The spell of silence was broken when Nes got up to gather more firewood. As low-murmured conversations started up again, Robert rose. Leaving Edward to preside over the gathering, he climbed the crumbling steps to the battlements, his mind crowding with thoughts of his daughter and the rest of his family. He couldn’t regret his decision to divide the company back at St Fillan’s, for the women and children would have suffered on this rock, dogged by cold and hunger, but neither had he been able to dispel the gnawing concern for their safety. Where were his wife and daughter this Christ Mass? Holed up in Kildrummy, or elsewhere? He tried to conjure an image of Marjorie sitting by a fire, eating gingerbread and drinking spiced wine, but the vision faded quickly in the face of his fears.

  Away from the fire the night air was glacial. Robert’s breath steamed as he made his way around the walkway to where the walls fell sheer to the shore. Far below, waves dashed themselves against the rocks, booming as they rumbled on into caves in the cliffs. Here, in the ruins of this sea-girt fortress, his men had made a home, finding shelter within its walls and encouragement in the promises of support from Islay and Antrim. To him, however, it remained a place of exile. Across the race, the waters of which glimmered like quicksilver in the moonlight, the cliffs of Kintyre rose from the sea, blacker than the star-studded sky. Only twelve miles away, his kingdom had never seemed so far.

  Robert leaned on the battlements, watching the waves rush towards the cliffs, trailing skirts of foam. This place reminded him so much of Turnberry. As a boy he would stand on those battlements and lean out, arms stretched, until it felt as though he were in the sky, wheeling above the salt spume with the gulls and cormorants.

  Turnberry. The place where he was born, thirty-three years ago, pulled into the world by Affraig’s hands on a night when Mars smouldered like a coal in the heavens. It was there that he learned of the death of King Alexander and watched his grandfather make his claim to the throne; where he witnessed the births of his brothers and sisters, delighted in his mother’s laughter and dwindled in his father’s bitter silence. Turnberry: where he learned to fight and to ride, and waited one endless summer for the men to return from their war against John Balliol in Galloway. His leaving of its walls had heralded the ending of his childhood and his march towards manhood, which began in the hall of his grandfather at Lochmaben and took him to the daunting majesty of King Edward’s court.

  In the Knights of the Dragon he had been seduced by prophecy and power, finding new purpose among England’s elite. On the road to war in Wales he was promised fortune and glory, only to discover that the promise was soaked in the blood of nations. Years later, it was to Turnberry that he came home a man, disillusioned by Edward’s desire to unite Britain under one crown, sickened by his father creeping on his belly to beg the king for a throne, and riddled with guilt for his part in the theft of the Stone of Destiny. In defiance of the king and his father, making good on the oath sworn to his grandfather in Lochmaben, he had sought out Affraig and there, in her house in the woods, had watched her weave him a crown out of heather, wormwood and broom.

  And what is your destiny?

  To be King of Scotland.

  He had felt the ghosts of his ancestors gathering around him in the shadows, their will working within him, the voice of his grandfather reminding him that the blood of kings flowed in his veins. That same night he had tossed the scarlet shield with its golden dragon from Turnberry’s battlements and watched it disappear beneath the waves, before telling his family and followers that he would be their king.

  Everything had seemed so clear – the road wide open before him. He hadn’t foreseen the twists and turns that had followed: the rough politics of William Wallace’s Forest court where he was plotted against by those who still supported John Balliol, the relentless campaigns of the English, the horror of Falkirk and, always, his rivalry with John Comyn, heating like a slow, inevitable fire. Sailing to Ireland to keep the Staff of Malachy from Edward’s hands and deny his ambition to fulfil Merlin’s prophecy, he found himself hunted by an assassin who turned out to be the last man to have seen King Alexander alive. Robert had survived the crossbow bolt only to be struck a greater blow in the rumour of Balliol’s return to the throne.

  It had been the bitterest of pills to swallow; his submission to Edward in Westminster Abbey, with the staff in his hands and his darkening suspicion that the king may have been involved in King Alexander’s death. For two years he bided his time in Edward’s court, hated and mistrusted, forced to lie to those he loved and spill the blood of his countrymen to prove his loyalty. His final move towards the throne, the result of months of careful plotting, had been ruined by John Comyn’s betrayal, after which the tumbling of stones had become an avalanche: Wallace’s execution, the flight from England, Edward’s declaration of war, the murder at Dumfries and his swift coronation.

  Now, here he stood, with a gulf much greater than twelve miles of water between him and his kingdom. Exiled by his people and excommunicated by the pope, what was he but king of a windswept rock with rags on his body and two hundred outlaws for an army? Robert clenched his fists on the battlements as he thought of the men in the glens of Antrim and out in the Isles gathering under his name. They would be a bridge to his country and the route back to his throne.

  It was then that he saw the boat.

  The vessel was gliding slowly towards the shore, carving a broad wake through the moon-washed waters. Like all West Highland galleys, the birlinn had a long, curved prow; an echo of the dragon-stemmed ships of the Norsemen. Robert tracked the boat’s trajectory to the beach where the vessels that had borne them from Dunaverty were moored. Quickly, he made his way back down the crumbling steps to the courtyard.

  As he entered the pool of firelight, his men, seeing his expression, faltered in their conversation. The festive atmosphere vanished as he told them about the boat. Men set down wine and drew weapons. The fire was doused. Ordering some men to man the battlements and watch for other ships, Robert led the rest out of the castle.

  They moved as ghosts in the moonlight, making their way down the rocky path to the shore. The birlinn had almost reached the shallows, nearing the pools where seals played. The splash of oars could be heard. On the beach, Robert motioned for his men to spread out. They did so, crouching behind rocks or pressing themselves against seaweed-draped boulders. After a time came voices and the sound of the galley grinding ashore. Robert risked a glance to see twenty figures leaping on to the beach. He nodded to Malcolm of Lennox and Gilbert de la Hay, hunkered down beside him, then emerged from his hiding place, sword drawn.

  ‘State your business!’

  The figures at the boat started round at Robert’s harsh call. Seeing the host of armed men appearing, a few reached for their weapons.

  One, taller than the others with a shaggy cloak that looked like a bearskin, raised a hand to stay them. ‘My lord king?’ His Gaelic was broad and deep, his tone wary, but self-assured.

  Robert didn’t recognise it, but Thomas did. He grinned, teeth flashing in the moonlight. ‘It’s Lord Angus, brother.’

  ‘Is that Sir Thomas?’ Angus MacDonald strode up the beach, pebbles clattering under his feet. He was followed by his men.

  As the Lord of Islay came closer, his features became clearer. Robert was struck by a memory of a young man with startlingly blue eyes passing him a spoon at his father’s
table in Turnberry. He had been a boy then and Angus a squire in his father’s company, but there was something familiar in the lord’s strong-boned face. Robert held out his hand. ‘Well met, Sir Angus,’ he said, unable to conceal his surprise.

  ‘My lord.’ Angus took his hand, his grip tight. He bowed, then raised his eyes to Robert. ‘Forgive my abruptness, but I must come straight to the matter that brings me here.’

  Robert felt his surprise turn to apprehension. ‘Please do so.’

  ‘Lachlan MacRuarie left my company two months ago to begin building a fleet of ships in honour of your request. I have now received word that he wants his payment doubled.’

  Robert said nothing. Behind him, he heard Neil Campbell curse.

  ‘He wants it now, my lord,’ Angus continued gravely, ‘before he gives you the boats and the men. May God strike him down, but the son of a bitch says he’ll sell his galleys to the English if you refuse.’

  Chapter 17

  Lochmaben, Scotland, 1307 AD

  Humphrey de Bohun woke to the screaming of gulls. The pillow was damp against his face and his skin felt clammy, prickling under the coarseness of the sheet. The fever seemed to have burned its way out of his skin during the night, but his head still pounded like a tight drum when he pushed himself upright. He sat on the edge of the bed, letting the intensity of the pain subside.

  The debilitating sickness had swept through the army during the last weeks of the siege against Dunaverty Castle, when autumn winds and driving rain had given way to leaden December skies that augured snow, already lacing the hills of Arran, visible across the Firth of Clyde. When the first fall came to Kintyre it fell as a mantle, covering the world in white. Each frozen dawn, the men had to scrape snow and ice from the frames of the siege engines. Almost three months battering the castle, with the weather battering them in return, and what did they have to show for it?

  Humphrey crossed the sparse chamber to the table by the window, the bare boards hard under his feet. He had noticed a few of the timbers were blackened, perhaps salvaged from the fire five years ago when the Scots, led by John Comyn, had attacked and most of King Edward’s new fortress at Lochmaben had gone up in smoke. He remembered that night now with a different kind of loss. This was yet another place tinged with the memory of Bess. She had kissed him on the battlements and spoke of her desire for the war to be ended, just before the arrows had come flaming out of the darkness. If only her body could be as a fortress, resurrected from ashes and dust.

  Rebuilt, using more material from the nearby motte and bailey castle that once belonged to Robert’s grandfather, the fort had fallen to Bruce early last year, following the uprising at Dumfries. Now, it was back in English hands, along with most of the kingdom, the Scots turning from the rebel king in their hundreds to lay swords and pledges of loyalty at Edward’s feet. Yet, still, the man himself evaded them.

  When the garrison at Dunaverty capitulated to the English and Scots forces under Prince Edward and John of Menteith, Robert Bruce was nowhere to be found. Humphrey had ordered the castle searched from top to bottom, three times, without success. Neither was there any sign of the Staff of Malachy or the Last Prophecy, apparently missing from its vessel. Infuriated by the rapidly souring victory, he had his men interrogate the garrison in an attempt to discover where Bruce had gone, but either none of them knew, or else they were all playing the same game, for each had offered up a different location. Some said he had never been there, others that he’d sailed to Ireland or Orkney, or some remote Outer Isle. One man even thoughtfully suggested Norway, with a mocking glimmer in his eyes that had angered Humphrey beyond belief. Whatever the truth, the rebel was in the wind.

  Instructing John of Menteith to remain and guard the castle, Humphrey and Prince Edward crossed the firth to Carrick, bearing the prisoners and the bad tidings. After a brief stay in Turnberry, in the command of Henry Percy, where Humphrey sent word to John MacDougall to maintain his patrols along the west coast, the company had wound their way south through the snow-covered wilds of Galloway, heading for the border.

  Humphrey planted his hands on the table, either side of a silver platter. On the plate was a remedy his squire, Hugh, had procured from the prince’s physician. He stared at the thing – a ball, about the size of a sheep’s eye, covered in a paste that bound its ingredients together and, according to the physician, made it easier to swallow. Humphrey felt his inflamed throat tighten in protest just looking at it. Sweeping aside the curtain, he winced at the flare of sunlight, a surprise after all these weeks of grey. The sky was the colour of lapis lazuli, as blue as the Virgin’s robes. A flock of gulls wheeled over the loch, come inland from the frozen marshes of the Solway Firth to find food. The window looked out over the courtyard, which was crowded with carts and horses. Grooms and porters were making preparations for their departure. Humphrey hoped to reach Lanercost by tonight. The sooner he told the king of Bruce’s disappearance and the next course of action was decided the better.

  Peering into the jug beside the platter, he saw the wine was as dark as blood. His servant had forgotten to water it down. Humphrey turned to the door, meaning to call for the man, then stopped and looked back at it. His head throbbed and his throat burned.

  Dear God, would this struggle never end? He wanted Bruce in his custody – not some ghost in the heather that slipped through his fingers. It had been so many months since anyone had seen him Humphrey had started to wonder if Robert might even be dead. Maybe he would never get his chance to look the man in the eye. Maybe he would never get his answers – answers to questions that had since begun to breed in dark corners of his mind, spawned by Aymer’s revelation that the empty prophecy box had been found on Niall, a vital fact King Edward had kept from him, for what reason or purpose he could not fathom.

  Humphrey reached for the jug of wine, then drew back at a knock on the door.

  It opened and Thomas, Earl of Lancaster and nephew to the king, entered. The young man looked furious. ‘My cousin has gone.’

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘Hunting, so my grooms tell me. He left just after matins with twenty of his men.’

  Humphrey’s frustration swelled. Now, they wouldn’t make Lanercost until tomorrow – yet another day for Robert to be free.

  Thomas closed the door behind him. ‘How long, Humphrey, will we let this continue?’

  ‘I will speak to the prince when he returns. Impress upon him the carelessness of his actions.’ Humphrey kept his voice calm, stifling his own ire. Thomas had become increasingly vocal in his waning opinion of the prince. It wasn’t a good time, with Edward ill, to have his son and nephew at odds with one another. He needed to play the advocate. ‘He is still young, Thomas. We must forgive him some mistakes.’

  ‘Young? At twenty-two years? At sixteen I was fighting in Wales. At seventeen my uncle was commanding an army against Llywelyn ap Gruffudd! Hunting, God damn it, when the king lies sick in England waiting for our return? When our enemy remains at large and our vision for a kingdom united hangs in the balance?’ Thomas stalked about the chamber, his whole body rigid with pent-up feeling. As he passed through a slant of sunlight his eyes, pale grey like the king’s, flashed. ‘Neither his youth nor his carelessness are the issue here. It isn’t my cousin’s actions that trouble me, so much as the company he keeps. You’ve seen as well as me the influence that knave exerts over him.’

  Humphrey knew Thomas meant Piers Gaveston. The young earl had never liked the Gascon and had made his antipathy plainer of late. Thomas wasn’t the only one. Many barons abhorred the way Piers lorded it over the rest of the court, acting, some said, as if it were he who was heir to the throne. Humphrey had little love for the arrogant knight, but he sensed that the resentment of some was fuelled more by jealousy, for not only did Piers have the ear of the future king, he was also one of the most accomplished fighters in their circle. For those reasons, if nothing else, the Gascon had garnered many enemies.

  Thomas scowled as he
read Humphrey’s face. ‘This isn’t mere rivalry, or gossip-mongering, Humphrey. Their friendship is – unnatural.’ His expression changed, his anger shifting to uncertainty. He stared at the floorboards, appearing to be struggling with some dilemma. Finally, he raised his head. ‘Two years ago, at Burstwick Manor, the prince led a hunt while the king convalesced. Do you remember?’

  Humphrey’s jaw pulsed. How in God’s name could he forget? Bess had died at that manor. Thomas went on, not seeming to notice his stiffness.

  ‘I had tracked the boar to a glade where it was hiding. My cousin and Piers had got there first, but they hadn’t seen the quarry, or me.’ Thomas’s brow furrowed. ‘I saw them kiss. Not the kiss of brothers. They kissed as man and woman.’

  Humphrey didn’t speak for a moment, as he took this in. ‘Did you confront them?’

  ‘In truth, I was too shocked. I said nothing, hoping it was a moment’s madness – the thrill of the hunt causing their passions to run wild. But I have seen signs since that tell me otherwise.’ Thomas paused. ‘Edward will take the throne of our kingdom, soon if my uncle’s health continues to deteriorate. Something must be done, before his authority becomes absolute. I believe I should speak to the king on our return to Lanercost – tell him what I saw.’