by Robyn Young
‘It is imperative your surrender appears genuine,’ the steward had told him before leaving Dunluce. ‘The fewer people who know the truth – that you do not intend for this to be permanent – the tighter the ruse will be. King Edward is no fool. Even if outwardly he accepts your submission, I guarantee he will use everything at his disposal to ascertain your loyalty behind your back. We know he has spies. We need every word that comes out of the mouths of Scots about you to be damning; to speak of your betrayal and infidelity to the cause.’
These words had echoed painfully in Robert as he landed on Carrick’s shore, where James was waiting with his brother. From there, under cover of darkness, they had ridden south to the border in the company of Ulster and his knights. Scarcely had Robert set foot upon the soil of his homeland before giving himself up to the king’s officials in Annandale and crossing into England, with barely a blade of grass bent to show he had been there at all.
Robert watched as Ulster’s man righted the unadorned casket, which contained so much more than the precious Irish relic. Inside, lay King Edward’s triumph and his defeat. He waited in silence, standing apart from the others, the cold seeping through him as the bare branches of the trees in the royal gardens rattled like bones in the wind. Foremost in his mind was his grandfather. Things had been so simple when the old lord was alive, his path in life so sure. Now, all the world seemed built upon sand.
At last, the king’s steward re-emerged and bade Ulster’s company to follow him. As the box was passed to him, Robert thought of gruff, scar-faced Brother Murtough, who had given his life in the protection of the staff. His shoulder ached as he hefted the casket and began to walk behind Ulster across the windswept courtyard, through the towering doors of the hall and into a cavernous gloom.
Westminster Hall, built by the Conqueror’s namesake son, was two hundred and forty feet long. Rows of thick, moulded pillars supported the vast roof and divided the hall into three aisles. Doors led into enclosed areas that housed the various courts, while stalls selling parchment, quills and ink to the clerks and lawyers were ranked along the north wall. King Edward couldn’t have chosen a better setting in which to hear his submission than this place of trial and judgement. Robert had to fight the intimidation he felt as he walked the central aisle towards a grand, carpeted dais set against the south wall.
Upon the platform stood a throne, illuminated by the pallid light slanting through the arched windows. A crowd of men was gathered there. They parted as the company approached. Robert was behind Ulster, his view blocked by the earl’s broad-shouldered frame, so he heard King Edward’s voice before he saw the man himself, that familiar steel tone, summoning the earl to approach. As Ulster ascended the steps and dropped down on one knee, the way ahead became clear.
Edward Longshanks was seated on the throne, as stiff and straight-backed as the carved chair itself. He looked older, more haggard, his cheeks gaunt and the droop in his eyelid more prominent. But despite this he seemed as formidable as ever, remarkably tall and erect even when seated, his long limbs swathed in a scarlet surcoat emblazoned with three lions and a gold crown ringing his head.
Robert felt the ache in his shoulder deepen as the casket’s weight pulled on his arms. While the king and Ulster greeted one another, he became acutely aware of many eyes upon him from the crowd. His gaze moved over the faces of the men. There was Anthony Bek, Bishop of Durham, and John de Warenne, the aged Earl of Surrey whose army had been destroyed by Wallace’s forces at Stirling. Beside them were the royal knights, Ralph de Monthermer and Robert Clifford. Once his comrades, both were grim and silent in their appraisal of him. Close by was Henry Percy with his cold blue eyes and Thomas of Lancaster, his face, more manly than boyish now, rigid with dislike. Beside them stood the rangy, red-haired Guy de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick. Robert had duelled with him outside the walls of Conwy Castle over an affair with the man’s sister. By his expression, Guy’s enmity seemed not to have diminished in the slightest.
As Robert locked eyes with a tall man standing by the dais, a jolt went through him. It was Aymer de Valence, cousin of the king and heir to the earldom of Pembroke. With the shock of recognition came hostility. His mind filled with an image of the black-haired knight coming at him in that dusty hovel in Llanfaes, his sword levelled at his chest. Aymer’s lips curled back in hatred and Robert saw the glimmer of wire that bound two teeth taken from another man’s mouth to his incisors. His own had been knocked out by Robert’s mailed fist in the fight at Llanfaes. Aymer took a step towards Robert, but a hand grasped his shoulder. It belonged to Humphrey de Bohun. Those green eyes, full of calm antipathy, were the hardest for Robert to meet. The others he had once called brother, but more in a formal sense, through their shared allegiance as Knights of the Dragon. With Humphrey he had meant it. How treacherously those sands had shifted beneath their feet, taking them from brotherhood to battlefield.
‘Come forward.’
The king’s voice brought Robert’s focus back to the dais. Seeing Ulster had stepped aside, he approached, passing through the hostile crowd. Up the steps he went, the carpet muffling his footsteps. Edward’s pale grey eyes were fixed on him. As the king shifted forward, his lean body taut, he reminded Robert of a snake, poised to strike.
Robert placed the wooden casket on the floor at the king’s feet and went down on one knee. ‘Lord king, I have come to pay homage and swear my fealty anew, begging your forgiveness for my part in the Scots’ rebellion. I hereby surrender myself and all my worldly possessions to your authority. All pledges made to my countrymen and their uprising I now rescind. All alliances with rebels who seek to disturb your peace and plot against you, I revoke. As a token of my faith, I beseech you, accept this gift.’
As Robert opened the lid of the casket, Edward leaned closer to study the contents. Triumph glittered in his eyes, before his gaze flicked back to Robert. ‘Sir Richard informs me that his men captured you in Ireland, trying to take the relic to Scotland.’ His tone was acid. ‘Pray tell me why you now present it as a gift?’
Robert heard James Stewart’s voice in his mind.
Tell the truth, as much as you can. It is the only way to convince a man like Edward. Shrouding yourself in truths will make it harder for him to see the lie.
‘It is true, I did try to take the staff. My intention was to use it to bargain terms for Scotland’s freedom. I sought an end to the war. But in Ireland I learned John Balliol was set to return and my purpose changed. I want my kingdom to have peace, but not under him. No matter the discord between us, I know we have this one desire in common: not to see Balliol take the throne. In bringing you the staff and asking that you accept my homage, I pledge to aid you in the prevention of this.’
The golden lions on the king’s surcoat shifted as his fingers gripped the throne’s carved arms. ‘What is in this for you, other than Balliol’s defeat? What is it you desire from such an alliance?’
Now, Robert didn’t hesitate. ‘I wish to have my lands and titles guaranteed, and assurances that my tenants will be spared life and limb. Furthermore, if Balliol’s restoration can be halted, perhaps – when I have proven myself worthy – you might consider granting me some position of authority in Scotland, in which I can act as a mediator between our nations to prevent further rebellion.’
There were scattered mutters of contempt from the crowd. Neither Edward nor Robert took their eyes off one another.
Finally, the king inhaled sharply through his nostrils and held out his hands. ‘I accept your surrender. Your lands will be guaranteed and your tenants spared.’
Robert, still on one knee, reached forward and grasped the king’s hands. Edward’s skin was cold, but his grip was strong. As Robert spoke, pledging homage and swearing fealty to his lord, the words were heavy with reality. This might all be a lie in his heart, but he would not be able to maintain the falsehood in practice. Edward would demand he act upon his allegiance. There were battlefields ahead, he knew, upon which he would be
expected to spill Scottish blood for the sake of his deception. Cruel fate had shoved him back to the start of a journey, which had already taken so much strength to complete. When he’d last fought for the English, part of him had wanted to believe in their cause. How could he do it again now – given what had changed in him? And, worse, given what he feared was true?
When the act was done, Edward sat back. ‘Give the staff to me.’
Robert reached into the box. The gold sheath that covered the crosier was icy. Slowly, he withdrew the staff of the King of Kings, a symbol of supreme authority. According to Merlin’s vision, the relic, united at Westminster with the Sword of Mercy, the Crown of Arthur and the Stone of Destiny, rendered Edward ruler of all Britain. Robert thought of what had been uncovered in that dank cellar in Dunluce Castle and had to force himself to hold out the staff, every fibre of his being resisting.
Edward took the relic eagerly. Rising to tower over Robert, his scarlet robe pooling around him, he thrust it high to show his men. The gems that encrusted the staff flashed in the morning light. As applause erupted from the crowd, Robert’s heart thudded like a drum.
As the cheers faded, the king looked coldly down at him. ‘You may rise. My steward will show you to lodgings. As to Sir Richard’s proposition, I will consider it.’
‘Thank you, my lord,’ murmured Robert. He got to his feet, the blood rushing back into his limbs. As he did so the fragment of iron around his neck slipped from the folds of his mantle.
‘What is that?’
Robert met Edward’s sharp gaze. Anticipation crackled through him. He heard James’s voice, warning him to beware, but he pushed it aside. He hadn’t meant for this to be revealed yet, but now that it had been he wasn’t about to waste the opportunity. ‘It is the head of a crossbow bolt, my lord, that I was shot with in Ireland.’
Edward’s mouth twitched; an involuntary tic of surprise. It was there for only a second before that steel façade closed in again, but just for a moment Robert swore he saw something new in the king’s face.
He was certain it was fear.
Chapter 17
Rothesay, Scotland, 1302 AD
James Stewart watched through the window of his private chamber as the riders funnelled into the courtyard beneath the raised spikes of the portcullis. The horses snorted plumes of steam into the morning air and their hooves rang on the frost-bitten ground, echoing off the weather-stained walls and towers of Rothesay Castle.
The riders were wrapped up against February’s chill in fur-trimmed cloaks, their hoods pulled low, but James knew well enough the devices on the surcoats and trappers. He felt no surprise at the recognition, only weary resignation.
There was a rap at the door. James turned as it opened to see his steward.
‘Visitors, my lord. Will you see them?’
‘Bring them straight to the hall.’ James looked back to see the riders dismounting, met by grooms from his stables. ‘And summon the others, Alan. It is time.’
After his steward had gone, James stood at his table, which was cluttered with documents. The fire in the hearth spat as it devoured the logs his servants had stacked in the grate. Closing his eyes, he drew in a breath.
He had known this day was inevitable, but he wished to God it hadn’t come. He allowed himself a moment of grief for the way things had gone; for the plight of his kingdom and its people, weakened by the fist of war, which had squeezed blood and life, wealth and faith from them these past years. Fortune had not favoured the Scots since the day his vassal, William Wallace, had won them glory at Stirling. Now, by James’s own hand, the last of that faith might well be crushed. Only he knew the secret: that hope might yet spring again from that tiny seed planted deep in the heart of England.
Bracing himself, he crossed to the door and opened it into the shadowy expanse of his hall. The fresh straw covering the tiles dulled his footsteps as he went to the dais. In the heat buffeting from the hearths the straw’s grassy smell reminded him of a damp, summer afternoon. How such a simple thought brought sorrow these days. It felt as though there would never be any more summer afternoons, only seasons of English campaigns followed by the hard bite of winter with the harvests burned and ruined in the fields, and fewer sons to sow the ground for more. Wan morning light slanted through the windows, dust motes swirling. As James climbed the dais steps to stand behind the hall’s head table, the double doors swung open and seven men entered, their mail coats and sword pommels glittering in the bronze light from the hearths.
The tall man at the front pushed back his hood as he approached, his boots heavy on the floor. John of Atholl’s face was grim, his eyes on James. Behind came his son, David, with Alexander and Christopher Seton. After fleeing Ireland with Robert’s brothers, bearing the Staff of Malachy, the cousins had remained with the high steward at Rothesay for a time, but as the weeks passed without word from Robert, they had grown increasingly restless. Frustrated by the lack of action, they had finally left, intending to join the rebels in Selkirk Forest. It was no doubt where they had met up with the earl.
‘Sir James,’ Atholl greeted curtly, coming to stand before the dais. ‘Is it true?’
There was no point in pleasantries. None of them could afford the luxury of small talk when everything had come down to a matter of victory or defeat, life or death. Still, Atholl’s abruptness took James aback.
‘Is it true?’ the earl demanded again. The fact he was several feet lower than the steward on the platform diminished none of his authority. ‘Has Robert surrendered?’
‘Surrendered?’
At the youthful voice, James’s eyes moved from Atholl to Niall and Thomas Bruce, who had entered the hall with his steward. The question had come from Niall.
Ever since James returned from Antrim, the young man had pressed him as to why his brother hadn’t travelled with him, despite the high steward’s mollifying promises that Robert would return as soon as he had recovered from an injury. It was as if Niall had known he had been lying. James felt a twinge of regret, knowing in a few moments the upright, earnest young man would probably never fully trust him again.
‘We heard rumours in Selkirk,’ Atholl continued. ‘Word came saying Robert had given himself up to English wardens on the border; that he had in his possession the Staff of Malachy and was planning to deliver the relic and himself to King Edward’s mercy.’
‘That can’t be true,’ said Thomas, as he and Niall came to stand with Atholl and the Setons. ‘The staff is here with Sir James and my brother hasn’t yet returned from Antrim.’
James caught Niall staring at him, the young man’s brow furrowing as the lie was exposed, no doubt visible in his face. It was ironic that the two brothers were the last to know given their proximity to the truth, but they had remained isolated on Bute, far from the rebels’ camp, where rumour spread fast. The steward had relied on that fact. The sooner the rebels discovered Robert’s desertion, the sooner they would damn him for it and his surrender to Edward would appear all the more genuine. ‘What you have heard is true. Robert sailed from Antrim with the Earl of Ulster a little over a month ago. I met him in Carrick with your brother,’ he told Thomas and Niall. ‘The two of them crossed into England with the staff.’
‘Edward said he was going to visit our sister in Mar,’ said Thomas flatly, still looking as though he didn’t believe any of this.
‘I advised him to keep the truth from you. I was afraid you might try to convince him and Robert to stay. I thought it would make it easier for them to do what they had to do.’
‘What happened in Ireland?’ Atholl urged. ‘What made Robert do this? And why in God’s name did you let him?’
Alexander was looking wrathful. Christopher seemed stunned as if, like Thomas, he couldn’t reconcile this revelation with the Robert he knew.
‘Robert has his own mind, John, and I think you know him well enough to understand he would not have done such a thing lightly, or without good reason. You will have heard by now
that Balliol is set to return to the throne with the help of King Philippe. If this happens, Robert will have no place in Scotland. He had no choice.’
‘No choice?’ Alexander’s voice rose to echo through the hall. ‘He had the same choice we all had: to give up our lands and fortunes to fight for the freedom of our kingdom, no matter the cost. To see a rightful king upon the throne.’ His tone roughened. ‘He swore he would be that king. Did he think so little of our sacrifice in supporting his cause that he could not make his own?’
‘Cousin,’ began Christopher, grasping his shoulder. ‘Robert must have had his reasons. I cannot believe he would do this without good cause.’
Alexander jerked from his grip. ‘Reasons? He had them aplenty. Reasons to save his own skin when he saw the ship was sinking and damn all those of us left on board!’ He stepped towards James. ‘How could you go along with this?’
James stiffened, but held his poise. ‘By submitting to Edward, Robert has made the ultimate sacrifice. If fate had offered any alternative, he would have taken it, believe me.’ James hesitated. He hadn’t planned to tell them anything more, but the shock and fury on their faces compelled him to throw them a crumb of hope. ‘It is always possible, if Balliol is prevented from taking the throne, that Robert may be able to return to Scotland.’
‘As the English king’s puppet!’ responded Atholl hotly. ‘Meanwhile, the rebellion hangs on a thread in the hands of John Comyn. One meagre victory at Lochmaben was all he was able to offer us after the English onslaught this summer. Another campaign and I swear that thread will snap. Robert has taken the one thing we could have bargained with and delivered it into the hands of our enemy. I fear you have damned us all.’ With that, John of Atholl turned and strode from the hall. His son followed as did Alexander, with a last furious look at the steward. Christopher lingered for a moment, then moved after his cousin.