by Robyn Young
Robert glanced at her.
‘Niall and Thomas,’ said his daughter, removing one of the figures from the castle. ‘They do not speak of you.’
Chapter 26
Brechin, Scotland, 1303 AD
While girls made hawthorn garlands for May celebrations and wheat and rye ripened in the fields, the men of England prepared for war. Tailors mended tears in gambesons, farriers shoed horses and squires whetted dull blades and cleaned rust from their masters’ mail coats in barrels of sand. Bidding wives and children farewell, leaving crops flourishing under clement skies, knights donned armour and bands of cloth decorated with the red cross of St George and made their way to the point of muster, called to arms by their king.
Converging on the east coast, the train of knights and squires, infantry, archers, pack-horses, mules, carts and siege engines wound for miles, raising a pall of dust over the Great North Road. Summoned in the wake of the attack on Segrave’s company, it was the largest force Edward had gathered since the campaign that had seen the deaths of ten thousand Scots at Falkirk. The sum of a king’s revenge.
After pausing at York to amass supplies, Edward continued towards Scotland, crossing the border at the beginning of June, where he split his forces. The Prince of Wales was set in charge of a large company and sent into Strathearn to burn, loot and, in the king’s words, raise hell, while Edward himself led the main body of the army towards the east coast, passing beneath the indomitable shadow of Stirling Castle, which the Scots held firm against him. Meanwhile, a fleet of Irish ships, under the Earl of Ulster’s command, harried the west coast by sea.
By August King Edward reached the town of Brechin, where he set about besieging its castle. Built on a rocky outcrop over a river, the fortress was well-garrisoned and supplied and, after a fortnight’s bombardment, the stout walls and the pluck of the men within continuing to frustrate him, Edward was forced to bring in more siege engines by sea to Montrose. Needing heavier ballast than stones with which to counterweight these new machines, he sent a company under the command of Aymer de Valence to nearby Brechin Cathedral to strip its roof of lead.
Robert squinted up at the square tower, which was shrouded in scaffolding. Although broad, it was still only half the height of the round tower that loomed behind it, almost one hundred feet high. They brought to mind two brothers standing side by side, one tall and slender, the other short and squat. In the midday sun they cast stunted shadows across the cathedral yard and cemetery, beyond which were the manses of the canons and the bishop’s palace.
A fly landed on his cheek and crawled towards his mouth, until he swiped it away. The heat had brought them out in swarms, along with the horseflies that tormented the destriers.
‘What are you waiting for, Bruce?’
Robert turned at the voice, which brayed above the general hubbub of men and horses that crowded the precinct, stinking up the air. His gaze fixed on the speaker, standing in the shade of an oak, holding a pewter goblet.
Aymer de Valence’s chiselled face was flushed, his dark eyes narrowed beneath the rim of his upturned visor. Around him, sheltering from the glare, stood other knights and nobles, among them Thomas of Lancaster and Ralph de Monthermer, drinking the wine Valence had commandeered from the bishop’s palace. Servants continued to hurry from the palace conveying casks of the stuff, along with meat pies, bread and cheese for the invaders. A little way away, lined up in the sun, faces red with heat and anger, stood Brechin’s bishop and canons. English squires paced close by, hands on swords, watching them.
‘Well?’ Valence gestured at the tower. ‘Send them up, for Christ’s sake. King Edward needs this lead tonight.’
Robert bore Valence’s contempt with the same turn of the cheek he had learned to employ often on the march north. ‘Get climbing,’ he ordered the group of foot soldiers, whose tunics were dusty from the piles of rubble they had just cleared from the masons’ trays. Beneath the bulk of his mail no one could see his rigid shoulders, or his fingers under the steel-plated gloves flexing to curl around a weapon and cleave Valence’s skull. The infantry, who Robert had been ordered to raise from his Scottish estates by the king, went to work, hefting the wooden trays they had emptied.
Robert stood alone, watching as they began to ascend. He could have protested; told the son of a whore to send his own foot soldiers, but Edward had expressly set Valence in charge and any disrespect to his cousin’s authority would be an affront to the king. Above all, Robert knew he must maintain the illusion of obedience and loyalty. Aymer had been watching him like a hawk since the start of the campaign. But he was not the only one. The closer they had come to Scotland, the more Robert found himself aware of everything he said or did, until he no longer felt he inhabited his own body. It was as if he were a puppet on strings, manipulated by those around him, moving only according to their expectations. The pretence had become exhausting.
The men looked awkward on the flimsy ladders that zigzagged the tiers of platforms, supported by spindly conifer frames. It was slow going, each pair struggling with the trays they carried between them, forced to climb one-handed.
‘Blood and thunder, we’ll be here till Judgement Day,’ complained one of Valence’s men.
A merciful breeze cooled the sweat on Robert’s face and stirred the dead hawthorn blossom that littered the grass. On it, he caught a faint briny smell, perhaps from the lagoon at Montrose. Some miles to the east, the town had witnessed the day, seven years ago, when the royal arms had been stripped from John Balliol’s tabard, the same day Robert and the Knights of the Dragon had entered the abbey at Scone to take the Stone of Destiny.
Robert was pulled from his thoughts as one of the soldiers on the ladders lost his footing. The man fell with a shocked shout to sprawl on the narrow platform a few feet below him. His comrade, connected to him by the masons’ tray, kept his balance, but dropped the tray, which plummeted three floors of the square tower to shatter on the dusty ground. Aymer’s knights jeered, wondering – in voices loud enough for the Scots on the scaffold to hear – how many pieces the youth would have broken into had he dropped from the same height. A wager was called as to which of them would fall first. Ralph de Monthermer was the only one who didn’t join in the jests. Standing there, his yellow mantle with its green eagle garish in the sunlight, the royal knight nursed his wine in silence, observing the first of the youths as they reached the top platform, his eyes occasionally drifting to Robert.
Just above the top platform the square tower finished abruptly. The masonry there was paler than the bottom sections, only recently whitewashed. The first two men set down their tray and moved to reposition one of the ladders, eyeing the drop to the yard below. Between them, they laid it diagonally on the roof of the cathedral’s nave, which rose at a slanting angle to the tower. Beyond, the round tower pointed like a stone finger to the sky. The slabs of lead were blue in the sunlight. Armed with a chisel, one of the men crawled up the rungs and began to prise up the slabs, passing them down to his comrade, who stacked them in the tray.
Soon a line was formed and they picked up a rhythm. Once a tray was filled, two men would hoist the heavy container and inch their way down the ladders to where two carts waited to take the loads to the English siege lines surrounding Brechin Castle. Each pair was panting and drenched by the time they reached the wagons. The young Scot on the roof, levering off the lead, shifted further up as the blocks around him began to disappear. His comrade, belly down on the ladder, took each slab as it was handed to him.
Robert was directing the men offloading the lead on to the carts when he heard the shriek. He turned sharply, shielding his eyes from the sun, to see the man on the roof had lost his footing and was sliding fast towards the edge. Loose rectangles of lead skittered away from under him and crashed to the ground, causing the men below to duck and scatter. As his legs shot out into sky, the man managed to twist round and grab hold of the roof. He clung there for dear life, feet kicking desperately.
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br /> ‘Help him!’ Robert roared, cupping his hands to direct his shout at the man on the ladder, who seemed frozen by the spectacle.
There was another shriek as the young Scot slipped further, panic making him lose his grip. He was screaming something incoherent as his comrade reached out a hand.
‘Take it,’ Robert urged the screaming youth, beneath his breath. ‘God damn you, take it!’
Even the jeering knights had fallen silent. One of the canons, lined up alongside the bishop, was mouthing a prayer.
The man on the ladder shouted encouragement, stretching out his arm as far as he could. When the youth fell it was a jolt: a sudden plummeting of limbs. Robert had time for a flash of thought – how fast we are snatched from heaven – before the man landed with a thud on a pile of rubble. He lay there like a broken doll, one leg bent under him, arms flung wide. Blood trickled from under his head, seeping through the mortar.
‘A sign of God’s displeasure.’ It was the bishop’s voice that cut through the hush. ‘More will fall in the face of His wrath.’
Aymer de Valence strode out from under the shade of the oak. ‘Keep moving, you whelps!’ he shouted at the youths on the scaffold and around the carts, all of whom were motionless, their eyes on the body of their comrade.
For a second, Robert’s mask dropped. He stepped towards Valence, his hand going for his broadsword. Aymer, yelling at the Scots, didn’t notice. Robert was brought up short by Ralph de Monthermer.
The royal knight’s face was firm as he stepped in front of him, although his eyes showed understanding. ‘Take four of your men from the work and have them bury him, Robert. I will replace them with ten of my own.’
Robert’s rage dissolved slowly, fizzing back down inside him. Clarity drew his hand from the sword’s hilt. Not here. Not now.
‘Sir Ralph?’ Valence questioned, as the knight began ordering his own men to help the Scots on the scaffold. ‘What in God’s name are you doing?’
‘More hands will make this task quicker. As you said, King Edward wants the lead tonight.’
Robert allowed himself a brief, silent victory at the affront in Valence’s face, before he moved to the corpse, calling four men to help him.
By the time the dead man had been put in the cemetery’s ground and prayers said over him, one of the carts was full. Far above, the bare timber boards cladding the cathedral’s roof showed pale through the missing lead.
Hot with temper and wine, Valence called his knights to him, telling Ralph and Thomas of Lancaster that he would escort the first load to Brechin Castle. ‘Follow when you’re done,’ he finished, digging his mailed foot into his stirrup and hauling himself up.
The bishop watched him with resentful eyes. ‘Bad enough your king wages war on Scotland. Now, he wages war on the Almighty, stealing from His temple!’
Aymer’s expression changed to one of mocking indignation. ‘My lord does no such thing, your grace.’ He reached into his pouch and drew out a purse. ‘He sent this for you.’ The knight tossed the purse at the bishop’s feet.
With a short laugh at the bishop’s outrage, Aymer rode out of the cathedral grounds. The cart of lead rolled in his wake, churning up the grass.
Robert awoke in his tent the next morning to the air-splitting crack of stones striking the walls of Brechin Castle. He lay, staring up at the stained canvas, as the creak of the siege engines’ frames and the shouts of the engineers filled the dawn. When the next strikes came there were distant splashes as masonry tumbled into the river over which the fortress perched. Robert sat up, his skin glistening. The blankets were soaked where he had lain.
Standing, he crossed to a chest, on which was placed a small basin of water, razor and beaten silver mirror. As he crouched to wet his face, the crossbow bolt dangled from its thong. The pendant was more hex than talisman, taunting him with the reminder that he was no closer to finding the truth. He stared at its reflection, wondering how long he could go on with this charade; praying Balliol would never return, waiting for some chance to look inside that sealed black box, which might or might not prove anything. Would he end up like his grandfather: kept from the throne until he died? Or like his father: a washed-up old drunk, pinned under Edward’s thumb, whose only hope for the throne was in his wine-dazed dreams?
Robert felt a surge of hatred towards the English king, like acid inside him. God damn it, he was the descendant of Malcolm Canmore! He should stride out of this tent and order the fiery cross sent through the kingdom. He would don Affraig’s crown of heather and raise himself an army against the conquering English. His eyes, storm-blue in his sun-darkened face, glared back at him in the silver. During the first invasion of Scotland he had been torn by divided loyalties. This time, the conflict was all one-sided. He wanted to be leading the rebels. Instead he was here, trapped in Edward’s service, wearing this hateful mask of loyalty.
Robert dropped his head with a rough sigh. James Stewart’s voice echoed in his mind, warning him of the futility of decisive action. The English were so close to victory. Any men he could even persuade to join him would be cut down immediately. Alone, he couldn’t raise the size of army needed to counter Edward’s might. There is a season to everything, the steward would say. Have patience for the natural order of things.
After dressing, Robert pushed through the flaps that divided his sleeping area from the rest of the tent. His brother was tucking into a plate of meat and cheese one of the servants had set out.
Edward nodded as Robert appeared. ‘Did you sleep?’ he asked, around a mouthful of bread.
‘As much as I could with the din.’
In answer came another almighty crash as a stone exploded against the castle walls.
Edward raised his eyebrows. ‘How long do you think they’ll last?’
Robert tore off a hunk of bread, but didn’t eat it. ‘Not long at this rate.’
‘Nes told me about the lad, yesterday,’ Edward said, after a pause. ‘And what Valence said.’ He leaned forward, lowering his voice. ‘Brother, please tell me that one day, when you’re king, we’ll get the chance to kick that arrogant cock and all his men into the next life.’
Robert was taken aback by the strength of feeling in his tone. Until now, his brother had been utterly convincing in the deceit. Having worried about his hot temper, believing he would not be able to hide his resentment fighting for the hated enemy, Robert had been gratefully surprised when he had thrown himself with gusto into his new role. Sometimes, he thought Edward enjoyed the charade, lording over the English knights and barons they shared campfires and rations with at night, two loyal Scots hidden among them. ‘We will. I swear it.’
Edward fixed him with a stare. ‘Do you truly believe if Edward conquers Scotland he will give you what you want?’ He spread a hand to indicate the camp outside. ‘Even after all this?’
Robert was silent. He had never confided in his brother about the identity of his attacker in Ireland, or his suspicions about Alexander’s death, fearing Edward might do something reckless and jeopardise them both. The answer to the question was no. Despite James’s faint hope, Robert had never believed the king would willingly give him the throne and here on the campaign, witnessing first-hand his determination to crush Scotland beneath his heel, that belief had solidified. Realising his brother was frowning at him, waiting for an answer, Robert sat back. ‘We don’t know anything yet. We have to be patient. For the moment.’
The tent opened and Nes stuck his head in. ‘Sir Humphrey is here to see you.’
‘Send him in,’ said Robert, tossing the hunk of bread, uneaten, on to the platter.
Edward stood. ‘I need some air.’ As he headed for the flaps, Humphrey entered. They passed one another, Edward offering the earl a curt nod, before ducking outside.
Robert felt instantly wary at the smile on Humphrey’s face. Over the past year, his former friend had become better at the pretence of playing the ally, all the while watching his every move. But Robert had never
been convinced by his show. Being a deceiver himself, he knew the signs: the stiffness of the body, the inability quite to meet the other’s gaze, the little cough Humphrey sometimes gave and that smile that didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Does the king require me on the siege lines?’
‘Not yet,’ Humphrey told him. ‘But the castle is taking a hammering. I imagine Brechin will surrender before the week is out. Then we can continue our progress north.’ He paused. ‘I spoke to Ralph last night. He said there was an accident at the cathedral – one of your foot soldiers?’
Robert didn’t have to feign the regret. ‘Yes.’
‘He also told me you and Aymer had a disagreement. That he thought you might . . .’
As Humphrey hesitated, Robert filled in the words. ‘Attack him? Indeed I might have. The bastard was taking wagers on which of my men would fall first.’ Before Humphrey could respond, Robert continued. ‘You and I have, I believe, come to an understanding this past year. But Aymer?’ He gave a humourless bark of laughter. ‘We will never make amends.’
In the silence that followed, stones continued to bombard the castle walls.
Humphrey nodded. ‘You should keep out of his way. He is waiting for an opportunity to drive a wedge between you and the king.’
Robert went and poured wine into two goblets, one of which he handed to Humphrey. ‘I’ve heard once Brechin falls the king plans to move on Aberdeen?’
‘That’s true.’
As Humphrey drank, Robert thought of his brother-in-law, John of Atholl, the Sheriff of Aberdeen. ‘So we might be at this for a while yet?’ When Humphrey looked at him, Robert added, ‘My daughter – I miss her.’
Humphrey relaxed and smiled. This time, the expression almost reached his eyes and Robert saw a ghost of his old friend.
‘It gets harder, doesn’t it, the more we love what we leave behind?’ Humphrey took another sip of wine, his smile softening with affection. ‘But Bess keeps me moving through the blisters and the marches, knowing every step will eventually bring me back to her. As I’m sure Elizabeth and Marjorie do you.’