by Robyn Young
Aymer stepped back.
‘Henry de Bohun saw you!’ Spittle flecked from Edward’s mouth. ‘He saw you with Thomas and Guy – saw you take Piers from the Scots. Henry arrived last night, half dead from his wounds, barely able to stay in the saddle, but determined I should know the traitors in my midst!’
At the word traitor, fear flooded Aymer, bringing with it images of William Wallace on the executioner’s slab, John of Atholl hauled up on that high gallows and Niall Bruce’s neck being pressed down on the block. He knew he was caught. There was only one thing to do. Aymer collapsed on his knees before the furious king, clasping his hands together in pleading prayer. ‘My lord king, I beg your forgiveness. I never should have gone along with their plan. I thought they were acting in the best interests of the realm – but they were wrong. I see that now.’
‘Whose plan? Tell me!’
As Aymer gave up the names of the men who had met in Humphrey de Bohun’s castle, Edward’s face changed from livid red to ashen white. He stumbled back, raising a hand to his brow. ‘Dear God. You are all against me?’
‘My lord, we—’
‘Where were they taking him?’ Edward said, rounding on him. ‘Henry followed them, but lost them on the road.’
‘To France. Lancaster arranged for him to be placed in custody there.’
‘This was my cousin’s plan? He is at the heart of this?’ Edward stared down at Aymer. ‘My God, what have you done?’ Before the earl could answer, the king was shouting for his steward.
Blacklow Hill, England, 1312 AD
They rode north, leaving Warwick Castle behind them. The distant torchlight on the walls flickered faintly through the rushing darkness of the woods. As the ground rose, snatches of sky appeared between the breaks in the canopy. A sliver of moon hung in the blackness like a torn fingernail. Catching a flash of pale wings, Thomas of Lancaster looked up to see an owl swoop over him. He felt the knot of tension in his body coil tighter.
All the way from the border, Thomas had felt as though he were being watched. On the journey, he insisted their company sleep outside, not wanting to risk being seen in inns or monasteries, even though they were unknown in the towns and none of them wore anything to identify them. Guy de Beauchamp had mocked him for his caution, but had gone along with him – well aware of the risk they were taking. It hadn’t been a hardship, the June nights mild and dry, but the men had been glad to reach Warwick that afternoon, with its promise of soft beds and warm food. Their prisoner secured, they had feasted well, Thomas making sure the pages kept Guy’s goblet filled. The inebriated earl and his men had retired early, giving Thomas the chance he had been waiting for since they left the border.
The horses slowed, their heads bowing with the effort of the climb as they neared the crest of the hill. The men leaned forward in the saddles to make it easier for them.
‘Sir?’
Thomas looked round as one of his knights called to him. The man was leading a palfrey on which sat their prisoner, his head covered with a hood, hands tied to the pommel.
‘Let us be done with it,’ the knight urged in a low voice. ‘We’re far enough from the castle, surely?’
Thomas could hear the unease in the man’s voice. He had to do this now, before any of them backed out. Or, indeed, before he did. He had planned to do the deed beyond the town walls, where it would not be interrupted or witnessed, but although that had been the case for the past mile he had kept on going. The moment he halted his horse, the moment he would have to commit to what he had decided to do months ago. That night in Humphrey de Bohun’s castle, the others had all gone along with his plan, trusting his word. They hadn’t known he never intended to keep it.
Ahead, the ground levelled.
‘Here,’ said Thomas, reining in his horse.
The crown of the hill was cast in the moon’s spectral light. Trees surrounded them in a ring, surging in the breeze. Dismounting, Thomas watched as his men untied the prisoner and hauled him from the saddle. Two of them forced him to his knees.
Thomas walked towards the kneeling man, the weight of his sword hanging heavy from his hip. Earlier, he’d had his squire whet the blade. It scraped against the leather as he drew it from the scabbard. ‘Take off his hood.’
Piers Gaveston shook his head wildly as the hood came away, desperate to see where he had been brought, and by whom. He was gagged, but his eyes spoke volumes as they fixed on Thomas. He went still, seeing the sword in the earl’s hand. After a pause, Piers tried to speak, but the words, muted by the gag, were incomprehensible.
Thomas stared at him, feeling the tension tighten every sinew in his body. Despite his disgust and his hatred of this man, this wasn’t the same as facing an enemy on the field of battle, where death was roaring and eager. Death, here, was silent, reluctant – went by the name of murder.
The plan Guy, Aymer, Humphrey and the others had agreed to – sentencing the king’s lover to perpetual imprisonment – Thomas had never believed in himself. Edward would find out; some day he would find out and Piers would be brought back to his side. He was certain of it. Thomas gripped the hilt of his sword. Sweat broke out on his brow. There was only one way to deal with this disease at the heart of their realm. The corruption must be excised, once and for all.
Piers struggled madly as Thomas stepped towards him, but the two knights held him firm. Somewhere in the woods surrounding Blacklow Hill an owl screeched, covering the muted cry as Piers Gaveston, Earl of Cornwall, was run through.
Chapter 44
Lochmaben, Scotland, 1313 AD
The keep was a fractured finger of stone, pointing skyward. Charred remains of buildings lay scattered around the base of the motte; blackened timbers of barns sticking up like the ribs of some great corpse that weather and time had stripped of flesh. Robert stood in the ruins, staring at what was left of the castle that had once been the heart of the lordship of Annandale, stronghold of his grandfather and the place where he had left behind boyhood and become a hunter, a fighter, a man – the place where he made a promise to his grandfather to uphold their claim to the throne, and where this journey had begun.
The Bruce family had moved their chief castle to Lochmaben almost two centuries ago, after the river swallowed their fortress at Annan, the waters said to have risen at the command of St Malachy, in vengeance for the lord’s betrayal. Now, looking at the devastation wrought by the English in more recent times, Robert thought of the Irish saint’s curse echoing down the years. Had that one treacherous act of his ancestor been as a stone in a pool? Were these still the ripples of that? And what of his own sins: his lies and betrayals, the spilling of John Comyn’s blood at the altar? How far and how wide would those yet spread?
There was a rustle of undergrowth and Fionn appeared. The hound trotted over, strands of reeds caught in his shaggy coat. Robert guessed he had been hunting by the loch. It was midsummer and the evening sky was a washed-out blue. The twilight cast the ruins in an eerie glow, making them seem even more forlorn. He wondered if he would ever see this place whole again; wasn’t even sure he wanted to. To build over this corpse of a castle seemed somehow disrespectful. It had become a monument, a tombstone for his family – a reminder both of what had been lost and what he had yet to regain.
‘My lord.’
Robert turned as Nes approached through the broken line of what had been the castle palisade.
‘Sir Gilbert de la Hay has come, my lord. He has word from the siege camp at Stirling.’
Robert felt a jolt of anticipation. ‘It has fallen?’
‘The messenger didn’t say, my lord – only that Sir Gilbert must speak with you urgently. Our man was on his way to Dumfries to alert you when he saw us here.’
Robert set off across the debris-strewn ground, back to his horse and the men who had accompanied him from Dumfries, where he had been accepting pledges of fealty from local landowners. Dumfries had fallen to him in the spring, its garrison finally starved out. Soon after
, he had taken the Isle of Man with the aid of Lachlan MacRuarie and Angus MacDonald. Caerlaverock and Lochmaben had followed, along with Buittle, once chief stronghold of John Balliol. Now, the entire south-western approach to Scotland was under his control. The English had lost the Solway Firth.
All these victories had been made possible by the English themselves, deeply embroiled in their own internal struggles this past year, following the unprecedented execution of Piers Gaveston. It was an outcome Robert hadn’t foreseen when making the secret pact with the former Knights of the Dragon, but one that had favoured him greatly. With risk of retaliation a distant threat – the barons and their king at war with one another – he had used England’s turmoil to his advantage, finally fixing his sights on one of the great eastern castles: mighty Stirling, the key to the kingdom.
When Perth fell to his forces, he had razed it, the royal burgh too vital a staging ground to be allowed to remain. Its destruction left Stirling isolated. The cliff-top fortress, under the command of Sir Philip Moubray, a Scottish knight loyal to the English king, had become an island, cut off from aid. In the spring, Robert sent his brother to surround it; his intent, to starve Stirling’s garrison into submission.
As he approached his men, waiting for him beyond the castle ruins, Robert felt his anticipation build. If Stirling had indeed fallen, then the struggle to reclaim his kingdom was almost won. Of the other chief strongholds in enemy hands, only Edinburgh, Roxburgh and Berwick remained. When they fell the realm would be in his control and, then, he could concentrate on freeing his family. He now felt satisfied he had made the right choice in appointing his brother as commander of the siege. Edward, whom he had made Earl of Carrick and Lord of Galloway, had become increasingly impulsive, determined to fight this conflict his own way. Head of a growing war-band of his own, he had made several unauthorised assaults on secondary fortresses, one of which almost ended in disaster. Robert had sent him to Stirling to keep him fixed on one target. Now, it appeared, he was justified in that decision.
By the time he and his party rode in through the gates of Lochmaben’s New Castle, the first stars were splinters of light in the eastern sky. The compound, built by Edward Longshanks using material from the old castle, was surrounded by earthen ramparts topped with a palisade. A wooden fort stood at the centre. Robert had been using it as a base to store supplies and the plunder taken from Dumfries and elsewhere. He saw some of Gilbert de la Hay’s men outside talking to the garrison. They greeted their king with respectful nods as he entered the fort.
Gilbert de la Hay was waiting for him in the main chamber, along with Thomas Randolph, who Robert had left in charge in his absence. His half-nephew had changed out of all recognition these past few years and had become one of his most trusted captains. For his loyal service, Robert had made him Earl of Moray, a new earldom created out of the lands of Buchan and Badenoch.
Thomas and Gilbert both looked concerned and Robert’s anticipation of good news from Stirling curdled at their expressions.
‘My lord king,’ Gilbert greeted, rising from the table he had been sitting at. The late June sun had turned his mop of hair white and burned his nose an angry red.
‘What is it, Gilbert?’ Robert asked sharply.
‘Sir Edward has agreed terms of surrender with Stirling’s commander.’
Robert frowned. ‘But this is good news. Dear God, Gilbert, by your face I thought—’
‘He made a deal, my lord,’ Gilbert cut in quickly.
‘A deal?’
‘Perhaps challenge would be the better term. Sir Philip Moubray sent an envoy to your brother’s camp, begging him to lift the siege. Moubray asked for a respite in which to seek the aid of King Edward. He swore, if the English king did not come north to relieve him, he would surrender Stirling without a fight.’
‘Tell me my brother turned him down?’ said Robert in a low voice.
‘My lord, I’m afraid he agreed. In fact, he told Moubray to tell the English they have until next Midsummer’s Day. A full year. If they fail to appear before the walls of Stirling Castle to lay claim to it by then, Moubray and the garrison will give themselves up to you.’
‘He called them out?’ murmured Robert. He crossed to the table, which was covered in maps and charts, marked with the castles and territories he had captured these past four years. He went to sit, then changed his mind and remained standing, fists balled on the table.
Thomas glanced at Gilbert, then spoke into the silence. ‘My lord, the English are surely too involved in their own struggles to agree to Moubray’s request for aid?’
Robert said nothing. He stared down at the maps beneath his hands. He’d had men patrolling the border all these years, watching for sign of the enemy. Had King Edward marched north against him he would have done what he had during the last campaign: scorch the earth and retreat beyond the Forth. His victory over Aymer de Valence’s forces at Loudoun Hill had been remarkable, as Wallace’s triumph at Stirling Bridge had been. But other than that one pitched battle, in which God and fortune had blessed him, his war had been fought by skirmish and ambush, sea raid and night attack. No matter his strength of arms, no matter the loyalty of his men, Robert knew his army could not compare with the force of England. Battles that pitched foot soldiers against the iron might of their heavy cavalry were doomed to fail. Wallace and ten thousand Scots had learned that lesson – it was written in blood in the fields of Falkirk.
‘My lord?’
Robert looked at his nephew, who repeated his question. He shook his head in response. No matter how divided their enemy was, this, he knew, was something that could unite them. By this deal, made in his name, his brother had effectively gone to the border and challenged the English to a duel. To ignore it would render King Edward a coward. The king’s honour was now at stake.
‘No,’ Robert murmured. ‘They will come.’
Pleshey Castle, England, 1313 AD
‘Welcome home, my lord.’
Humphrey nodded to his steward as the man crossed the yard to greet him. ‘Thank you, Ranulf.’ Around him, his men dismounted, removing caps and gulping at wine skins. It was warm for late September and they had ridden many miles that day.
‘How fared you in Westminster, sir?’
Humphrey noted the apprehension in Ranulf’s voice. Such anxiety had become characteristic of his staff over the past year, all of them fearing what the outcome of the rift between their lord and their king might be. There had been times – England teetering on the brink of civil war – when not only their livelihoods, but their lives had been in danger. He smiled to reassure the older man. ‘Do not worry, Ranulf. I have made my peace with the king.’ Humphrey slid off his gloves. ‘He still needs my service against the Scots.’
Ranulf nodded. ‘When will the muster take place?’
‘In the spring. We’ll receive the summons in the next few weeks.’ Humphrey handed his dust-stained gloves to the steward. ‘Is Lady Elizabeth in her chambers?’
‘I believe she is in the garden. Shall I have her brought to you?’
‘No, thank you.’
Leaving his steward to see to the rest of the company, Humphrey headed across the yard, through the arched door in the wall that surrounded the kitchen gardens. Stooping beneath trailing strands of ivy, he saw a guard loitering on the pathway that ran around the beds of flowers that bordered a lawn dotted with pear and plum trees. The guard had his thumbs hooked in his belt and appeared to be enjoying the sunshine. Some distance away, his charge was sitting on a bench reading.
‘My lord.’ The guard straightened as he saw Humphrey.
Humphrey nodded to him. ‘You may go, Nicolas.’
As the guard ducked through the door, closing it behind him, the figure on the bench looked up from her book.
Elizabeth smiled as Humphrey headed over, but her expression held the same uneasy question as Ranulf’s. She went to rise as he approached, but he gestured for her to stay, acutely aware this dance between
them was still so faltering. Elizabeth was a queen, but she was his prisoner. She was his enemy, yet she was his lover. He sat on the bench beside her. The air was sweetened by fennel and sage.
Elizabeth studied him. After a moment she nodded, as if he had answered a question. ‘It is happening, isn’t it? You are going to war?’
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
Humphrey paused. A year ago he never would have spoken to her about such matters, but many things had changed in that time. Her hand was splayed on the bench beside him. Reaching down, he threaded his fingers through hers. ‘Next spring – before the truce made for Stirling runs out.’
Elizabeth shook her head. ‘I thought, with the Earl of Lancaster against him, that the king would not—’
‘Sir Thomas and Sir Guy have been accepted into the king’s peace.’
Humphrey took in her surprise. There had been similar reactions at court when the king had made the announcement. For a time, it had seemed such a thing would not be possible, despite all the mediations and negotiations that had taken place over the past sixteen months since the execution of Piers Gaveston.
The bloody demise of the Earl of Cornwall, whose gored and beheaded body had been found by four shoemakers on Blacklow Hill, had sent shock waves throughout England. Aymer de Valence, throwing himself on the king’s mercy, had revealed the identities of those involved in the conspiracy to abduct Piers, which ended in the man’s murder. Edward, mad with grief and rage, pointed the finger of blame directly at Lancaster and Warwick. Guy de Beauchamp vehemently denied any part in it, but the king was out for blood and was determined that all who had plotted against him be punished severely.
In little doubt the deed had been done at Lancaster’s hand, Humphrey and the other barons had been furious at being taken for fools, but nonetheless had stood firm against the king, refusing to relinquish their lands or their freedom for what they maintained had been done in the best interests of the realm.