Kingdom: Insurrection Trilogy Book 3

by Robyn Young

  ‘And what of your new wife, my lord prince? Will she bear my presence at your side?’

  Edward’s brow furrowed at his cold tone. ‘She’ll have no choice. Isabella will be my wife in name alone. My heart will always be yours.’

  ‘My lord?’

  Edward looked round to see his squire lingering uncertainly. Behind the young man the white cliffs were blinding in the March sunlight.

  ‘The captain says he must leave, my lord. The tide turns.’

  Edward reached for the purse that was tied to his belt. Unfastening it, he pushed it into Piers’s hands. ‘This should see you well until you reach Ponthieu.’

  Piers stared at it. His jaw pulsed. ‘I doubt it will last me a week.’

  ‘Those aren’t coins. They’re jewels and gold – my rings, some brooches. All I could get my hands on.’

  Piers’s hand closed around the purse. After a pause he seemed to thaw. Reaching up, he touched Edward’s face, a mess of browns and yellows where the king’s fists had struck. The prince’s head was covered by a hat, concealing the bald patches where his blond hair had been torn out.

  Edward put his hand over the knight’s, pressing it to his cheek. He felt anger and despair well up, threatening to overwhelm him. He’d spent so many years with Piers at his side, from the carefree days of boyhood, through the wild passion of adolescence to the slow-burning fire of love. He couldn’t imagine him not being there. It was as if one of his limbs were being torn from him. Not caring that his men were waiting nearby, Edward leaned in and kissed him, aching at the soft fullness of his lips between the stubble of beard, the familiar perfume of his oil-scented hair, the warmth of his breath. ‘You have my heart, Piers. Always.’

  Chapter 25

  Barra, Scotland, 1307 AD

  He felt as though God were tormenting him, sending him back to this island with the same heavy heart he’d borne that first voyage. How many more dead would he have to carry inside him before this war was over? His soul had become a graveyard.

  Barra’s rugged contours dominated Robert’s vision, the sun descending in a blaze behind its hills, but all he could see were the faces of Thomas, Alexander and Lord Donough. He remembered, with aching detail, playing with his younger brothers, racing and fighting in Carrick’s hills, back when they believed the earldom was the world and they were its masters. He remembered Thomas’s trustworthiness and Alexander’s sincerity. He remembered the way Donough’s eyes would crinkle when he smiled and how his foster-father’s deep voice would fill his hall with the legends of Irish heroes. He stared into the sun, willing it to burn away the images, erasing the pain, the guilt, but they remained, haunting his thoughts. They had done since Cormac told him what had happened in Galloway. His foster-brother sat at the stern, wrapped in a blanket, his bruised face stained by the sun’s dying light. Fionn lay at his feet, his head on his paws, eyes following the movements of the crew.

  After crawling from that hollow they had stumbled through the woods for miles, Robert dragging Cormac alongside him, ignoring his anguished pleas to set him down and let him be. When they reached the shore, some miles north of Turnberry, Robert despaired, seeing the fleet out on the water nearing Arran, but adamant Edward and his men wouldn’t leave without him, he had hauled Cormac along the cliffs to a hidden cove where he and his brothers often played as children. Vain hope blossomed into blessed relief when he saw the galley anchored in the shallows. As they staggered on to the beach, Edward and Nes came running to meet them, Fionn leaping excitedly around them in the waves.

  Back on Arran, sombre at the failed invasion and the news from Galloway, Robert and his men had counted their losses, before seeking the sanctuary of the Outer Isles.

  Robert’s gaze moved from Cormac to the large figure who sat slumped against the mast, hands tied behind it. The attack, he reminded himself, hadn’t been utterly fruitless. A sack had been placed over the captive’s head, secured around his neck with rope. A few years ago Robert would never have treated a man of his stature with such dishonour, but things had changed. King Edward had seen to that. His eyes lingered on the captive, fingers itching to curl around his sword hilt and take his revenge in bloody strips from the man’s body. Even with the knowledge that the prisoner was now perhaps his best hope, the urge was almost unbearable. Robert’s attention was caught by a warning shout from one of the birlinns cresting the waves ahead of them.

  Lachlan MacRuarie crossed the deck, looking to where the crewman was pointing. They were sailing into the mouth of Barra’s harbour. The castle had appeared, rising from its island in the foreground.

  ‘What is it?’ Robert asked, standing.

  ‘Unknown vessels,’ murmured Lachlan, his gaze on the shore. ‘Five of them.’

  Robert shielded his eyes from the sun’s brilliance. He could see them – five galleys lined up on the beach. They were smaller than Lachlan’s, not quite as long or as sleek.

  Edward moved up beside him. ‘Who are they?’

  Hearing a cry behind him, Robert turned sharply. It had come from James Douglas. The young man had leapt on to one of the benches, his face lit with elation. He was waving his arms over his head, his cheeks creased with a broad grin. Glancing back at the shore Robert saw figures running down the sand. He couldn’t see their faces at this distance, but his eyes fixed on the bright yellow of their surcoats, all of which had a broad band across the middle. It was too far for him to pick out the detail, but, with a rush of joy, he knew they would be chequered blue and white. They were the colours of the High Steward of Scotland.

  The sun had slipped behind the great hill and more people had appeared on the beach to welcome the men home by the time the first galleys ground ashore. Robert glimpsed Christiana among them, her hair flying like a banner in the breeze, but all his focus was on James Stewart, waiting in the shallows, his tall form draped by a fur-trimmed mantle that bore his crest. James smiled a rare smile as Robert jumped on to the sand and went to meet him. They embraced, laughing at the reunion, which neither man had expected to come.

  Robert felt the wall of disagreement and resentment that had built up between them these past two years dissolve. There was only gladness, seeing his old friend alive, here with him at last. As he drew back, wondering where to begin, James Douglas approached, looking tentatively between them. Robert smiled and stepped aside, gesturing for him to greet his uncle and godfather. The young man started forward as if to embrace the steward, then halted and bowed respectfully instead.

  The steward moved in and grasped the young man’s shoulders. ‘Your message was a prayer answered.’

  Edward and Malcolm joined them, quickly followed by Gilbert de la Hay and Neil Campbell, all overjoyed at the sight of the steward; former adviser to King Alexander, once guardian of Scotland, and one of the most powerful lords in the kingdom.

  After the greetings were exchanged and the first questions began, Robert held up his hand. ‘There will be time to share stories later. Let me talk with James alone.’

  Leaving his men to collect their gear, Robert led the high steward along the shoreline, away from the crowd. When they came to a stream that cut glimmering veins through the sand, he turned to him. ‘When I found Malcolm he said he saw you ride from Methven Wood, but even then . . .’ Robert shook his head. ‘After everything that has happened, I didn’t dare hope.’

  ‘For my part, I had some hope to cling to,’ James told him. ‘Snatches of reports from men I sent out telling me you were alive. But I had to keep moving to avoid the English, who were hunting me in my lands, and the tidings became fewer as the months went by. By the time I got word from my nephew that you had found sanctuary here, faith had all but left me.’

  ‘Do you know of the others? My family? Sir John? Christopher?’

  ‘I heard Wishart and Lamberton were arrested and that John MacDougall and the Black Comyn had raised an army against you, but other than that it was mostly fragments of rumour and hearsay, impossible to build a picture with.’
James’s tone was grave. ‘I do know that Pope Clement has pronounced your excommunication.’

  Robert thought he saw blame in the steward’s brown eyes and perhaps a glint of anger. After a pause, he looked away, his gaze on the galleys still making their way in to shore, the black sails of the MacDonald vessels and the red of the MacRuaries’ reflected in the calm waters of the harbour. His voice hushed with sorrow, he told James of the fate of his family at King Edward’s hands and the black news Cormac had struggled his way from Galloway with. ‘The dragon banner fulfilled its promise,’ he finished quietly. ‘Edward showed no mercy. I fear Alexander and Thomas will share the same fate as Niall.’ He glanced at the steward, whose eyes were closed. Robert noticed his hair was greyer and the lines that creased his face deeper. He looked old, old and worn out.

  Finally, James turned to him, his eyes moist in the twilight. ‘I do not have words, Robert. I am so very sorry.’

  ‘I sent them there, James. I sent my brothers to their deaths.’ Robert sat on the beach, scooping up a fistful of white sand. ‘I know Alexander didn’t want to go. I ordered him from my side not because he would be of use in the fight, but because he wanted me to atone for Comyn’s death. That’s why I sent him away – for the sake of my own damn pride.’ He let the sand trickle between his fingers, the grains scattering on the breeze. His voice hardened. ‘I’ll not let their deaths be in vain. I have to try again.’

  James said nothing for a long moment. He looked over at the men and women crowded on the beach. Torches flamed in the gathering dusk. ‘It is no mean feat to have won the allegiance of the MacDonalds and the lords of Garmoran. Malcolm, Gilbert, Neil and others would all lay down their lives for you. I myself will gather and arm as many of my tenants as I can.’ His eyes flicked to Robert. ‘But I do not believe this will be enough to fight a war on two fronts, not after what you say happened in Galloway and Turnberry.’ James crouched down beside him. ‘I beg you, my lord, make amends with those of your countrymen who stand against you. Your grandfather came to realise that only grief could be born in the hatred between him and the Comyns. That is why he stepped down after John Balliol was chosen as king. Maybe, for the sake of our realm, it is time for you to do the same? Time to atone?’

  Robert thought back to that rainy day in Lochmaben; the day he had taken Carrick from his father and inherited their family’s claim to the throne. He recalled his grandfather telling him then that the first duty of a king was to hold the realm together. But the man hadn’t lived through these dark days. The war then had been gestating, unborn. Robert had heard this before from the high steward at Methven Wood and his coronation, but it was different hearing it now. He didn’t feel anger or resentment. He felt calm in his discord. ‘It is too late, James. None of us can wipe the slate clean. Too much blood has been spilled on it. The Comyns and their allies still believe John Balliol should sit on Scotland’s throne. They will never accept me. Never pay homage to me. If I am to have any hope of rebuilding my kingdom they cannot be part of it. I know that now.’

  ‘This is civil war, Robert. Blood against blood.’

  ‘It became civil war when I killed John Comyn. There is only one way through it. One side must destroy the other if either is to survive. God willing, beyond it is civil peace.’

  ‘You could wait – bide your time out here in safety? I do not believe King Edward is long for this world. From what you say, Aymer de Valence, Henry Percy and Dungal MacDouall have been running his campaign. That is not the Edward we know. I suspect this means he is too frail to make the journey himself. When his son takes the throne the landscape of this war will change, perhaps dramatically. Why not see how it lies then?’

  ‘I cannot wait, James. Edward has defied death too many times. Who is to say his health will not improve – that we won’t see him come north in the summer, under the dragon? I have to continue the fight. Every day the English in Scotland remain unchallenged, the stronger their dominion grows.’

  ‘What of your family? What of Marjorie and Elizabeth? Edward may use them to punish you for continuing your war.’

  Robert rose. ‘I have someone who may help me with that. Come.’

  He led the way back along the shore, retracing his footprints in the sand. The men were still unloading supplies from the vessels as more birlinns let down anchors in the bay, the crew using the lines of moored galleys as a bridge to clamber to the shore. Robert saw that the prisoner had been hauled off. He was kneeling in the sand, hands tied behind his back, the blood on his gold surcoat garish in the torchlight. Two of Lachlan’s men were standing over him. The prisoner’s head was moving frantically from side to side as if he were trying to work out where he was. Robert could hear his breaths.

  ‘This is how I ensure my family’s safety,’ he said, turning to the steward. ‘And, I believe, their freedom.’

  The prisoner jerked round at his voice. ‘Bruce! You bastard!’ His voice was muffled through the hood. As he struggled to stand, one of Lachlan’s men grabbed hold of the top of the sack, pushing him firmly back down.

  James looked at Robert, shocked. ‘Is that . . .?’

  Robert smiled coldly. ‘Henry Percy, Lord of Alnwick.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Lachlan,’ answered Robert, as deeply satisfied looking down on the humbled English lord now as he had been back on Arran when the captain had shown him his prize. Percy, who had cut a bloody swathe through the fleeing galloglass, hadn’t seen the cliff edge in the mist and the chaos. His horse had gone straight over. He was only saved by being tossed from the saddle on to a ledge several feet below. His sword gone, he stood no chance against the tide of men pouring down to the beach.

  ‘Release me,’ Percy growled. ‘Or your family will suffer.’

  ‘My family are already suffering.’ Robert kept his voice flat, matter-of-fact, careful not to reveal his emotions to the lord, who had been one of his brothers-in-arms when they were Knights of the Dragon. He didn’t want the man to know his true feelings; didn’t want him to be able to tell the king of his torment. He would not give Edward the satisfaction.

  ‘Believe me, Bruce, it can be made worse for them.’

  Robert gestured to Lachlan’s men. ‘Secure him.’

  As they hauled the corpulent lord to his feet, Percy twisted towards Robert. ‘My men will come for me, traitor, and when they do they will make you wish you were never born! You and all your bastard kin!’

  Robert waited until they had led him away. ‘I will offer to exchange him for my daughter, my wife and my sisters.’ As he turned to the high steward to gauge his reaction, he caught sight of a man who had appeared on the edges of the crowd and was watching Percy being dragged up the beach. Robert stared at him, disbelieving what his eyes were telling him. There, standing on the beach was Alexander Seton.

  James followed his gaze. He nodded. ‘Alexander found me on Bute two months ago. He had been searching for you, as I had, without success. He elected to stay with me and wait for word.’

  His surprise fading, Robert felt wariness creep in like a shadow. ‘He deserted me, James, back in Aberdeen. I’ve not seen him since.’

  ‘He told me. For what it is worth, he seems truly regretful of his actions.’

  Alexander glanced round to see Robert staring at him. He seemed to stiffen, before coming forward, hesitantly. None of the other men, busy by the boats, had noticed him yet.

  As he approached, Robert realised how much he had changed. Alexander’s once broad, strong-boned face was thin. A beard, streaked with grey, covered his mouth and jaw. There was a new scar on his forehead and it looked as though his nose had been broken. The past year had clearly not been kind to him. Robert couldn’t help but feel gratified.

  Alexander dropped to his knees before him. ‘My lord king.’ He lowered his eyes. ‘Forgive me.’

  Robert looked down on him, strands of their long friendship tugging him in one direction, resentment and mistrust pulling him in another. ‘Arise,’ he said, afte
r a moment. He watched Alexander get to his feet. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘After Aberdeen I was in East Lothian for a time.’ Alexander kept his eyes on the sand. ‘I submitted to the English in the hope I would gain back my lands, but then I learned you were attacked in Lorn by John MacDougall’s forces.’ He raised his head. ‘It was then that I realised the depth of my mistake. I couldn’t bear not knowing what had happened – to you, to my friends, to Christopher – so I set out to find you.’ He looked down at his hands. ‘Hoping I could make amends.’

  Robert wondered suddenly whether Alexander had heard what had happened to his cousin. He guessed he hadn’t, since James hadn’t known of it. He was thinking how to broach the subject, when he saw a woman approaching. It was Brigid, her bare feet sinking in the sand. Her expression caught his attention at once. He had seen that look on too many faces in recent months not to know what it meant.

  The men and women wound their way down to the shore in the blue dusk, the flames of their torches gusting. Dark clouds tarnished the sky, casting shadows across the water. Waves whispered on the sand. When the procession came to the boat, raised up on a cradle of firewood near the water’s edge, they spread out in a circle around it. Some glanced at one another for guidance, unsure, nervous even, of the unfamiliar ritual.

  Robert was the first to approach the vessel. In one hand he held a piece of parchment, in the other the destiny Affraig had made for him. The brittle crown at the centre of the web swung on its thread. He paused at the side of the boat, a miniature version of the birlinns, no bigger than a coffin. Lifted from the sand on a dais of logs and tinder, it came up to his waist. He looked down at the body inside. Affraig looked tiny, wrapped in her shabby brown cloak, only her sunken, wrinkled face visible. Kindling and scraps of material had been stuffed in around her, making her look as though she were lying in a nest. She had died only three days ago, but even though the cold had helped preserve her, he caught the sweet stench of decay beneath the smell of freshly chopped wood and the herbs Brigid had placed around her.