by Robyn Young
In truth, Robert had found relief leaving his wife and daughter at York Castle with Bess and Queen Marguerite. After little more than a month in Marjorie’s presence, and most of that spent in preparation for war, she remained a stranger to him. And Elizabeth – his wife? The brief thawing between them had slowed, her angst at being left to look after his estranged daughter cooling their marriage further. ‘Of course,’ he told Humphrey, knowing he must say what the knight expected to hear, while inside he wondered if there was any part of his life that wasn’t a lie.
The tent flaps opened and Henry Percy entered. The Lord of Alnwick’s fleshy face, usually full of arrogant humour, was grim.
‘The rebels, led by John Comyn, have raided into England. The king has just received word from Carlisle. He will send a company to counter at once.’
Humphrey’s jaw tightened, but he nodded determinedly as he set down the goblet. ‘When does he want me to leave?’
‘Not you,’ said Percy, turning his gaze on Robert. ‘Him.’ The challenge was clear in his cold blue eyes.
Chapter 27
Rothesay, Scotland, 1303 AD
John of Atholl jumped down into the shallows. His son, David, came after him, the hem of his cloak trailing in the foaming waves as he followed his father up on to the beach, his hair damp with spray. The waves in the firth had buffeted the little craft on the crossing.
John turned to the two fishermen who had rowed them to Bute. ‘You’ll wait here?’
One of them cracked a toothless smile. ‘Your coins will buy our patience, sir.’
The earl dug his hand into his purse and brought out a penny. It still had the seal of John Balliol on it. He tossed the coin to the fisherman, who snatched it from the air. ‘You’ll get two more when we’re back on the mainland.’
‘Father.’
David was pointing up the beach. John followed his son’s gaze past the clutter of boats and nets on the shore to the fishermen’s huts and wattle houses, then to the edifice of Rothesay Castle, its four drum-like towers looming above the town. Its hulking silhouette, ringed by a moat, was stark against the milk-grey sky. Between a gap in the houses, John made out the drawbridge protruding like a black tongue from the entrance. There were many figures crossing it, some leading horses or drawing handcarts.
Gruff voices drew the earl’s attention along the shore to where four galleys, each of sixteen oars, were drawn up. Long and low with their curved prows, they held echoes of the ships of the Norsemen, who had terrorised these seas and stormed the walls of Rothesay Castle seventy years ago. Men were hoisting chests and barrels into the galleys from a pile on the beach. John saw other figures heading down the main thoroughfare from the castle, carrying crates and casks. Several were wearing the colours of the steward, the blue and white chequered band bold against their yellow tunics.
‘It seems our arrival was timely,’ murmured John, his brow creasing. ‘At least, I hope it was, or our journey will have been wasted.’ He set off up the beach, boots sinking in the sand, his curly hair blown by the salty breeze. David followed.
On reaching the thoroughfare, they found themselves in a tide of people. The air was full of anxious shouts, children’s wails and the bleating of animals. Doors banged as people left their homes, carrying armfuls of belongings. John passed an old woman leading two braying mules, while David found himself in a flock of geese that scattered as he hastened through their midst. He muttered an apology to the young woman herding them, who didn’t respond as she gathered the geese back in with her crook. Her face, like all the others, was drawn and afraid.
Heading across the drawbridge, past lines of men carrying chests and leading horses down to the beach, they entered the courtyard, the castle buildings rising around them. Guards manned the walkways that ringed the upper part of the walls, clad in the steward’s livery. Others hurried up and down the stone steps, calling to comrades. The courtyard itself was frantic with people. The air stank of sweat and smoke; of fear, thought John. Turning in a circle, he caught a glimpse of a tall, dark-haired youth. He thought it might be Niall Bruce, but before he could be sure the young man was gone, swallowed by the crowd.
‘I see him, Father.’
As David caught his arm, John twisted round to see a familiar figure. James Stewart was talking intently to one of his men. The high steward looked uncommonly harried.
‘Sir James!’
The steward turned, his face registering surprise and confusion as he saw them approaching. ‘John? What in God’s name are you doing here?’ Before John could respond, the steward looked back at his man. ‘Pack the last of it. I’ll meet you at the boats.’ As the soldier hastened off, James motioned to the hall. ‘Come, both of you, I cannot hear myself think out here.’
In the hall servants were stacking barrels and sacks against one wall. The trestles and benches had been pushed back to make room, the steward’s banner removed from behind the dais.
‘What’s happening?’ John asked as they entered.
‘King Edward has summoned an army from Ireland to attack us from the west – there has been burning and looting all along the coast. Last night we saw fires on the mainland and, at dawn, my scouts spied the ships. They are headed for Bute.’
John noticed two pages heading out of the steward’s private chamber that adjoined the hall, carrying what looked like money chests. ‘You’re not going to hold Rothesay against them?’
‘My men will,’ said James, facing him. ‘But I cannot afford to be trapped here. I’ll take a small force to Inverkip then try for Paisley, unless that has fallen too.’
‘What about Ulster, your kinsman? Is there any way you can parley with him, have him call off the attack?’
‘Sir Richard is Edward’s man. Kin or not, he will do what he is ordered to do.’
As James pushed a hand through his hair, John noticed the grey shot through his temples. He knew his looked the same. They were growing old with this war. ‘If it’s any comfort, the bulk of the king’s army is firmly entrenched on the east coast.’ He smiled grimly. ‘And the son of a bitch will be forced to divide his strength further when he discovers our forces have crossed into England.’
‘Comyn has led our men across the border?’ When John nodded, James frowned. ‘Why aren’t you with them?’
John’s smile faded. ‘Comyn has become reckless and ambitious since he became sole guardian. Our victory against Segrave’s company at Roslin was won by a hair’s breadth; it was only thanks to Wallace that it was a victory at all.’ John noted James nod at the mention of Wallace, his vassal. ‘Comyn has grown close with MacDouall and the Galloway rabble, and since his father died he’s been drawing in others of greater power: the Earl of Strathearn and John of Menteith, David Graham and, of course, his kinsman, the Black Comyn. It seems to me he intends his new position to be permanent.’
‘Lamberton and Umfraville won’t stand for that,’ James said sharply.
‘While the other guardians remain in Paris there is little they can do about it.’ John paused. ‘But this isn’t the reason I am here.’ He waited as servants dragged grain sacks past them to line against the wall: supplies for the coming siege. When they were out of earshot, he continued. ‘Last year, on hearing of Robert’s submission to Edward I was furious. But I’ve had time to think. You didn’t tell me everything, did you, James?’
The steward looked away. ‘I told you all I could.’
‘Robert is my brother-in-law. I’ve known him since he was a boy and was as much of a friend to his grandfather as you were. When he first went against his father and Edward and joined the rebellion he forsook his lands. I cannot believe he submitted to the English king solely for the sake of his earldom and inheritance, not when he gave up both before. I know how strongly Robert yearns to be king. He inherited that fire from his grandfather. I cannot believe it has been doused. King Philippe has turned his back on Balliol. I, for one, do not think Bishop Lamberton and the others will be able to change his mind.
Not while war continues in Flanders.’ John lowered his voice. ‘Surely this is the time for Robert to make his move? To press his claim?’
‘We should speak in private.’ The steward glanced at David, standing in solemn silence at his father’s side.
‘Anything you say to me can be said to him,’ John assured him.
James motioned to his chamber.
Inside, a servant was hastily rolling up a map of the steward’s lordships. ‘Leave us.’ When the man left, closing the door behind him, James turned to face them. ‘Robert must retain his lands. Without them he has no platform of power, no vassals and scant authority in the eyes of the nobles. It isn’t the same situation as he faced before. That was why he had to submit to Edward, or risk losing all – as I told you.’ The steward hesitated. ‘What I didn’t tell you was that he means his submission to be temporary. As and when the threat of John Balliol is nullified and circumstance allows, Robert will attempt to take the throne. It remains his sincere intent.’
John felt hope soar in him at these words, which confirmed his suspicions. It was quickly taken over by impatience. ‘Then why not now, when that threat is so diminished? Meanwhile, the greater support for Comyn grows and the more victories he secures, the harder Robert will find it to challenge his authority when he returns. I fear he will find he has scaled one mountain only to be faced with another.’
James looked troubled, but still he shook his head. ‘Neither of us knows what the delegation in Paris will be able to achieve. Nor do we know how long we will survive this war.’
‘Then why in Christ’s name do you have Robert helping the English to destroy us?’
James was silent. His gaze drifted to the map the servant had left on the table. ‘In truth, John, I do not think we can last much longer. If Scotland falls, Robert has a better chance of becoming king if he is on the winning side.’
‘You want us to lose the war?’ David cut in, incredulous.
‘I wanted none of this. But when faced with the devil or the deep – well, a man must choose. If Robert returns prematurely to take the throne and we lose, he will face the same fate as Balliol. If King Edward hammers us into submission with his help, Robert has a hope of being offered a position of power in time. Such an outcome would neutralise the threat of Balliol and any danger to his authority that may come from Comyn.’
‘James, with all respect, such an outcome would set us back ten years! Robert would be another dog on a leash, as Balliol was under Edward.’
‘Edward is past sixty. He cannot last many more years. His son is not half the man he is and Robert is not John Balliol. I believe he can assert himself in time. But he needs a place of strength from which to do it. That is why he had to safeguard his lands and vassals.’
The door opened and one of the steward’s men appeared. ‘Sir, we need to leave. Smoke is rising in the west.’
James levelled Atholl with his gaze. ‘None of us knows what will be. All any of us can do is pick a path and follow it through the darkness. I need you to trust me, John, and Robert needs you to trust him.’ He held out his hand. ‘Can you do that?’
John’s mind filled with a memory of Robert Bruce standing in the courtyard of Turnberry Castle surrounded by his brothers and men, his face lit by torches and by an inner fire as he spoke of his right to the throne of Scotland and his intention to take it. He had seemed, to John, the very image of his grandfather in that moment – only younger and stronger – a cub who would yet become a lion.
Reaching out, John gripped the steward’s hand. ‘I pray to God your path is right, James.’
Chapter 28
York, England, 1303 AD
Elizabeth awoke with a start to the sound of shouting. As she sat up, the Book of Hours she had been reading slipped from her lap. Catching it before it fell, she placed the book carefully beside her on the window seat, open on an illustration of the Virgin suckling the infant Christ, the blue of Mary’s robe rendered luminous with powdered lapis lazuli. Her ivory cross on its chain, given to her by her father, lay along the book’s crease, marking the page. She rarely wore it these days, not since her marriage. Her neck felt stiff from the draught coming through the leaded glass that looked out over the castle’s limestone walls to the River Foss. Beyond, the King’s Fishpool shimmered gold in the afternoon sun.
The shouts continued, muffled through the bedchamber walls. As Elizabeth pushed open the door to the smaller adjacent room they sharpened.
‘I won’t tell you again, girl!’
It was Judith who had spoken. The nurse was facing a table, the surface of which was cluttered with furniture from Marjorie’s model castle. Behind it stood Robert’s daughter, stormy-eyed, her small fists clenched at her sides.
‘What is happening here?’ Elizabeth looked from the nurse to the girl.
‘I’ve told Marjorie to put away her toys and get ready for supper, my lady,’ said Judith, turning to her. ‘Three times now.’
Elizabeth rubbed at her neck, feeling tendrils of pain worming into the base of her skull. It was her bleeding time and she felt fractious. Another quarrel was the last thing she needed. ‘Just put them away yourself, Judith. Surely we can deal with this tomorrow.’
‘She still has one in her hand,’ said Judith, eyeing Marjorie, who glared balefully at her. ‘And begging your pardon, my lady, but I think this should be dealt with now.’
Elizabeth stared at the stubborn child, battling the defeat already weighing heavy on her. In the three months since Robert had gone, marching north with the king’s army, the girl’s behaviour had grown steadily worse. Last week she had crept out of their lodgings when Judith’s back was turned. It had taken three hours and all Elizabeth’s staff to find her, hidden in the castle stables, even though the girl must have heard them shouting her name. The week before in a fit of temper she had ripped apart one of the dolls her father had given her, then was inconsolable for the rest of the day. She shouted and screamed when she didn’t get her way, refused to do anything when told and was sullen or rude to almost everyone who spoke to her, even gentle Queen Marguerite on one occasion, which had left Elizabeth mortified.
She knew the girl’s behaviour was starting to reflect on her. She had heard two of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting remark on the wild Scottish girl, who needed to be tamed by a firmer hand. A rebellious seed, they had called her; so clearly the product of her father. Marjorie wasn’t the only thing they gossiped about. One morning, leaving the chapel after Mass, Elizabeth had caught several women murmuring about the fact that she wasn’t yet with child, even after more than a year of marriage.
As if in response to the memory, her belly gave a spasm and blood trickled warm into the wad of linen secured between her legs. ‘Marjorie,’ she said sharply. ‘You will do as you’re told.’
Marjorie’s gaze flicked to her, then returned to level Judith once more, as if the nurse were the real authority here.
‘Do you hear me?’
This time the girl didn’t even glance at her.
Elizabeth felt a rush of heat in her cheeks, anger rising, fierce and sudden. She strode around the table and took hold of Marjorie’s arm. ‘Give it to me.’
Marjorie flinched, her mouth parting in shock, then tried to wrench herself free. Keeping tight hold, Elizabeth managed to wrestle the girl’s hand from around her back. Ignoring Marjorie’s yells of protest, she prised the child’s fingers apart and snatched away the toy she had been clutching. It was the ivory man from the model castle.
For a second, bent over, out of breath, her hair straggling free of its pins, Elizabeth stared at it, then Marjorie lashed out, scratching her cheek. Elizabeth reacted, slapping her across the face, so hard she stumbled into the table. The girl hung there, one hand gripping the wood, the other coming up to clasp her reddening cheek. Elizabeth put the ivory figure on the table, not meeting Judith’s eyes, and left the room. All the way down the stairs, she could hear Marjorie’s cries echoing behind her.
E
lizabeth pushed out into the heat of the afternoon, taking deep breaths of air. Her maid Lora was sitting outside in the sunshine with her laundress, who was bent over a tub washing her chemise and underskirts. The women seem to have settled easily into their new lives across the water, their routines much the same as they had been in Ireland. She was the only one who hadn’t seemed able to adapt.
‘My lady,’ Lora greeted. ‘Another fine afternoon, is it not?’ The maid’s smile faded as Elizabeth moved on.
‘My lady?’
Head down, Elizabeth hastened through the bailey, intent on putting as much distance as possible between herself and her lodgings. The castle was hectic with life, grooms leading horses to the stables, three boys laughing as they raced barrows of vegetables from the gardens to the kitchens, clerks and royal officials coming and going from the great hall. Above the bustle, rising on its high, green mound, the walls of the keep were honey-coloured in the late August sun.
Elizabeth threaded her way through a knot of serving girls, carrying buckets of water from the well. Their high-pitched voices grated in her ears and she pressed on, desperate for solitude. But where to go? York had served as King Edward’s administrative seat and a staging ground for his wars in Scotland for the past five years and the city beyond the castle walls, second only to London in population, would be no less frenetic.
The maze of streets, lined with timber-framed shops and scores of religious houses, was always crowded with traders and ale-wives, fishermen and friars, while the rivers Ouse and Foss teemed with fishing craft and merchants’ cogs. Elizabeth had come to know the thoroughfares and markets well in the months she had been here, but for all its familiarity it remained a foreign, transitory place where she felt squeezed out on the borders by the bustle of others’ lives.
Moving on past the stables, the warm air clotted with pungent odours, she chose her direction and headed for the castle gardens. As her feet took her from the dust of the yard to soft grass and the rumble of barrow wheels and laughter faded into the thrum of bees, her pace slowed. Smells of lavender, fennel and mint rose around her, soothing and sweet. Over the bright faces of peonies, butterflies tilted at one another. Two men were digging up onions and off through the apple trees and climbing roses she saw other figures pruning and watering the herbs, their hoods up to keep off the sun. In comparison to the bailey the gardens were an oasis of calm.