by Robyn Young
‘No. No more.’ The steward’s tone was adamant. ‘For this plan to work, you need to maintain your good standing in the English court. God willing, John Comyn will agree to support us, but if he does it will still be many months before we can set things in motion. We will need to seek out allies and ready our vassals in secret, build up a force of arms and decide upon strategies for attack. Then there is your coronation to plan. In this time we cannot arouse King Edward’s suspicions. You must remain loyal to him, working to establish the new Scottish council in time for next year’s parliament, as he has ordered. Time is on our side; indeed, the longer it takes us to ready ourselves, the more secure the king will begin to feel. He will not be expecting the hammer blow when it falls.’ James grasped his shoulder. ‘Do not risk all on a whim, Robert.’
‘A whim? Edward may have murdered our king!’
‘And I am trying to make one,’ responded James forcefully. ‘Neither you nor I can bring Alexander back, whatever the cause of his passing. But if such a grave offence has been committed we can right it by setting you on the throne. Our people have lost so much, suffered so much. Freedom is worth more than justice.’
Robert looked towards the flickering campfires, hearing voices and laughter. ‘I can’t help but wonder, had I found you before Lamberton, whether you would have supported my initial plan?’
‘When Lamberton told me of your intention to use William Wallace to raise an army against King Edward, I believed it to be a fool’s errand. I stand by that. In time, I pray Sir William will be able to return to a position of standing in the realm, but not until we have the upper hand. The best thing he can do for now is stay hidden.’ James’s brow knotted. ‘Though I fear his thirst for English blood will bring him to the surface sooner rather than later.’
Robert knew the fight was lost. In truth, it had been over the moment he had set foot on the road north. Despite his deep misgivings, he couldn’t fail to see the sense in Lamberton’s plan, especially since his own had so far come to nothing. But that it had come to this? He thought of his grandfather, imprisoned after the Battle of Lewes by the forces of Simon de Montfort. By the treachery of the Comyns, the Bruce family had almost been ruined by the ransom they’d been forced to pay for the lord’s release. Robert tried to imagine what the old man would say if he knew what he was about to do. He pushed the question aside. His grandfather had not lived to see such days. James was right. Any price now was worth paying if it gained him the throne.
‘Does Comyn know what I’m going to ask him?’
‘No. He thinks you are coming to invite him to be part of the king’s new council. For once,’ James added with a wry smile, ‘we do not tell a lie.’
‘When do we leave?’
‘At first light. See,’ said James, heading through the heather to the edge of the moor, which fell away into darkness. ‘Lochindorb isn’t far.’
Following the steward, Robert saw a great loch stretched below him in the cleft of the hills. Far out, in the moon-washed expanse of water, was a castle, its battlements jewelled by torchlight. In the glow of the fires, he caught the red of a banner. ‘Tomorrow then,’ he murmured. ‘And may it be the last sacrifice I have to make.’
Chapter 43
Lochindorb, Scotland, 1304 AD
John Comyn watched as the boat receded. He could still see Robert Bruce, marked out from the other passengers by the white of his mantle. Hearing muffled voices above him, Comyn turned. His gaze moved up the sheer face of the castle’s wall to the battlements, where two of his guards, clad in his red livery, were leaning against the parapet. The tips of their bows were visible, propped beside them.
Looking back at the boat, edging towards the loch’s southern shore, Comyn imagined shouting the order. He would hear the yew bows creak as the string was pulled back; would see the arrows arc towards the vessel. Bruce would tumble from the prow, his mantle clouding the surface briefly, before he went under in a swirl of blood. The act itself would be easy. The repercussions would not. Comyn knew it would be like hurling a stone into that water, as he’d often done as a boy. He’d always marvelled at how far those ripples spread.
‘We have much to discuss.’
Comyn licked his dry lips as the Black Comyn spoke at his side. The Earl of Buchan’s gaze remained fixed on the boat.
‘We do,’ murmured Comyn. He rolled his shoulders, realising just how tense he had become during the parley with Bruce and his allies. ‘Let’s head inside.’ He led the way up the slimy boards of the jetty, past knights standing sentry, through the archway in the east wall. The two of them were met in the castle courtyard by Dungal MacDouall.
The captain inclined his head to the two lords, but his expression was one of agitated anger. ‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ he said in a clenched tone, ‘but may I ask what I have done to deserve your mistrust?’
‘Mistrust?’ Comyn frowned.
‘I can think of no other reason why you kept me from your meeting with Bruce and the high steward.’
‘Peace, Dungal,’ said Comyn irritably. ‘I kept you out because I didn’t think you would bear being in the same room as the man who disfigured you, without retaliating.’
Dungal flinched, his left arm pulling instinctively towards his body. The scarred bulb of his wrist jutted from the sleeve of his shirt, the skin livid and knotted.
‘Come,’ Comyn said, leading the way across the courtyard to the great hall. ‘We must talk. The meeting did not go as planned.’
MacDouall fell into step beside him. ‘Bruce did not invite you to join the king’s council?’
‘He did. But that was not the real reason he came.’
The doorward pushed open the double doors as the lords approached.
The great hall was dominated by a dais, behind which a red standard bearing John Comyn’s arms covered the wall. Wall-hangings lined the beamed chamber, depicting various heads of the family over the ages: one standing behind a king as he sealed a document, another bowing before the throne as he accepted new grants of land, John Comyn’s grandfather at the Battle of Lewes fighting alongside King Henry and a young Edward. Fires snapped and spat in the hooded hearths and the hall smelled sweetly of smoke and the straw strewn fresh across the floor for winter, the summer rushes swept out.
Servants were busy collecting up goblets and platters used during the council. Comyn dismissed them with an order, before sitting at the head of a trestle. The Black Comyn seated his broad, muscular frame on one of the benches, sending hunks of bread to the floor with a sweep of his hand. Dungal MacDouall sat opposite him, scanning the remnants of the spread darkly, as if searching for evidence of his enemy.
Comyn waited until the hall’s doors thudded shut, then began to speak, apprising MacDouall of the meeting and its unexpected outcome.
The captain sat for a long moment in silence, his right hand clenched on the surface of the table. ‘So Bruce intends to overthrow King John?’ His voice was quiet, but it might as well have been a shout for the force in his tone.
‘He has had designs on the throne for a long time,’ growled the Black Comyn, ‘this is no great revelation. That ambition has burned in his family for three generations. What is surprising is the confirmation that Bruce has been deceiving his English master all this time and now plans to make war upon him.’
‘I would say that is no surprise,’ murmured Comyn. ‘The son of a bitch has twisted in the wind so many times it is impossible to know which way he faces.’
‘He honestly believes you would help him do this?’ MacDouall was incredulous.
‘The high steward and that meddler Lamberton worked hard to convince me that such an alliance would be in my best interests. If I back Bruce in his bid for the throne he has offered me the lordship of Annandale and the earldom of Carrick.’
‘Only if he becomes king,’ cautioned the Black Comyn. ‘Remember, John, the deal does not stand if he fails to gain the throne. He means for you to throw the full weight of your support behind
him in this endeavour – your men and the vassals of your kin, all your allies.’ The earl looked at MacDouall. ‘The Disinherited.’
MacDouall gave a snarl of laughter and rose from his seat. ‘Bruce cannot think we would do this!’
Comyn met his fierce gaze. ‘I imagine they think their offer so generous I cannot refuse.’ He thought back to the meeting, to the moment James Stewart had outlined the terms. After the initial surprise had passed, he had looked over at Robert Bruce. By the utter resentment in his face, Comyn had guessed the extraordinary offer of Bruce’s ancestral lands and titles had not been his design. ‘They have no idea I hold the desire and the will to set myself upon the throne. To overthrow the king, as you put it,’ he added dryly, arching an eyebrow at the captain.
‘I would rather see you sit in place of your uncle than a thousand Bruces, sir,’ responded MacDouall. He sat back down, sliding one of the used goblets towards him with his good hand and pouring himself a measure of wine. His hand shook and he spilled some on the table.
The Black Comyn was studying his kinsman. ‘It is still surprising to me that your father would have given his blessing for this, John. It goes against everything the Comyn family stands for, everything our forefathers worked to achieve. We are kingmakers, not kings.’
‘Times have changed. We must change with them if our family is to regain its former glory,’ Comyn responded, discomforted by the intensity of the man’s stare. The earl, his father’s cousin and fifteen years his senior, was a shrewd man, who had sat at the heart of Scottish politics for decades, appointed as Constable of Scotland under Balliol’s rule. He was not a man to cross. Comyn felt relieved when the earl gave a nod and sat back.
‘That’s as may be,’ observed the Black Comyn. ‘But neither ambition nor need change the fact that Robert Bruce has a claim to the throne that is far stronger than yours. What is the likelihood of you gaining it in his place?’ Before Comyn could answer, he continued. ‘If Bruce was successful in his bid he would make you an earl. That is not something to be dismissed lightly, not by any means. Possession of Carrick grants you estates in Ireland and the lordship of Annandale, along with your holdings in Galloway, gives you control of the west of Scotland. He offers a great reward.’
‘All subject to him,’ Comyn answered, his face flushing at the thought of it. ‘I will not bow before that man. Not if my life depended on it. I would rather remain under the dominion of the English.’
‘Could you make a bid for the throne before he does?’ asked MacDouall, nursing his wine. ‘Now there is no hope for King John’s return, surely the men of the realm would support you? No matter the strength of Bruce’s claim, you are Balliol’s kin. That would count for much in the eyes of your allies. Why not use the same opportunity they intend to? Now King Edward has returned to England, why not rally your supporters and rise up against him? As king?’
‘It cannot be done.’ It was the Black Comyn who answered. ‘For the very same reason Bruce was forced to seek our endorsement. For his plan – or ours – to work, the whole realm must support it. Neither faction has the strength to face the English alone.’ He looked at Comyn. ‘Your surrender to King Edward cost you dearly. You have avoided exile by swearing to hunt down William Wallace, but you paid a high price for the return of Lochindorb and unless you deliver the outlaw you will have to pay more to gain back the rest of your estates.’ He paused. ‘I agree with Lamberton on this if nothing else: Scotland must be united if we are to fight our way free of the English yoke. You have many allies and an army at your command, but since Bruce inherited his father’s lands his strength has increased. He too has powerful friends: the High Steward of Scotland, the Bishops of Glasgow and St Andrews, Earl John of Atholl, Earl Gartnait of Mar, the MacDonalds of Islay, numerous lords and knights. If you tried to take the throne in his stead they would stand against you.’
‘Then we face a future subject to English will?’ murmured Comyn. ‘It is not much of a choice, is it?’
‘Not necessarily.’ The Black Comyn steepled his hands together. ‘If the hope of Bruce becoming king was removed, his supporters would find it far harder to challenge you in your own bid. Faced with only two options for rule – you or an English king – I know which many of them would come to choose in time.’
‘Removed?’ Comyn’s brow knotted. He wondered if the Black Comyn had had the same fantasy as him, out on the jetty. He shook his head. ‘We cannot remove Bruce. Not without risk of civil war.’
‘No. But King Edward could.’
Comyn sat forward. ‘Share your thoughts.’
‘We now know Robert Bruce is a traitor to the English. If Edward was to discover what he is planning, I’ll wager you my earldom Bruce will spend the rest of his days in the Tower of London.’
Comyn shook his head. ‘A fine notion. But not one that will work. King Edward trusts Bruce far more than he trusts any of us. My hatred of the man is well known. Edward is no fool. He would see it as a petty attempt on my part to discredit Bruce to further my own ambitions. I may well end up jeopardising the offer of a place on this new council. Unless I had real proof of Bruce’s treachery, something beyond my own word, the king would not believe it.’
‘We need not look for real proof – when proof can be manufactured to suit our needs.’
Isabel, Countess of Buchan, lay on the bed, her eyes open. On the wall beside her a tapestry depicted a man dressed in robes and crowned with a white halo, standing on the prow of a ship. In the background was an island with a cross above it, blazing in a beam of light from heaven. St Columba, she guessed, on his approach to Iona. The tapestry undulated in the draught coming through the window, making it look as though the woven sea was rippling. The fire had burned low in the grate since her husband had left and the room was as cold as a tomb. Isabel shivered, but made no move to get in under the bedcovers, or call her maids in the adjacent room to stoke the fire. Instead, she closed her eyes and rehearsed the words again, lips moving soundlessly.
Some time later, heavy footsteps approached along the passage outside. The countess pushed herself up on her hands and swung round, sliding from the edge of the mattress. For a moment she panicked, wondering where she should stand. In her husband’s castles or her own manors she knew her place. Here in John Comyn’s northern stronghold she was a guest, the unfamiliarity of the room making her unsure of herself. She made it to the window and sat herself on the cushioned seat, adjusting the padded net that covered her hair as the door opened.
Isabel forced a smile as her husband entered. It froze on her lips as she saw his expression: the tight set of his jaw, the creased skin of his brow. She knew that look. It did not bode well. She watched as he unfastened the pin that held his black mantle in place and swung the garment from his broad shoulders.
‘Why has the fire burned low?’ he growled, looking at her for the first time
‘I’ll have Radulf see to it,’ Isabel promised, as her husband tossed the mantle on the bed. She stood, smoothing the wrinkles in her gown. ‘Did the parley go as hoped?’
The earl grunted something she didn’t catch as he crossed to where his travelling cloak hung on a hook. ‘Have your maids pack,’ he told her, pulling the garment on over his surcoat. ‘The porters will be up in an hour to collect the chests.’
‘We’re leaving?’
‘I have urgent business to attend to.’
The words Isabel had rehearsed swelled in her mind, demanding to be spoken. She went to utter them, but faltered. ‘The king’s new council?’ she said instead. ‘Sir Robert invited you to sit upon it?’
The earl turned abruptly, the furrows in his brow deepening. He gave a bark of sardonic laughter, then crossed to her. ‘Always so proper,’ he murmured, cradling her face in his hand. ‘Sir Robert has played an unexpected move. The game has changed. We Comyns must now reposition our pieces. But, yes, King Edward wants me on the council.’
Isabel closed her eyes, feeling the calluses on his palm against her chee
k, his skin hardened over the years from the grip of his sword. The unexpected affection emboldened her. ‘That is good indeed.’ She slid her hand over his, keeping it in place. ‘I’ve been thinking, now the war is over, might we ask the king to release my nephew?’ Isabel spoke the words in a rush, glad to have them out of her. They had been circling in her mind for months, since she promised her sister she would petition her husband to make the request.
The earl removed his hand from her cheek. ‘I told you after St Andrews there would be no hope for your nephew’s release. Edward made it plain: Earl Duncan will never set foot in Fife again. He fears to have the kingmaker in Scotland.’
‘Months have passed since St Andrews,’ Isabel continued quickly. ‘Many Scots have served their terms of exile and have returned. Why not my nephew? Perhaps King Edward will feel differently now? Duncan is just a boy.’
‘Enough. I will not suffer explaining politics to a woman.’
Isabel clutched his arm as he turned away. ‘But when you’re sitting on his new council, the king might be persuaded to—’
‘I said enough!’ The Black Comyn’s words rose in a shout. He shoved her away from him.
Isabel was half his size. The brute force of her husband’s strength caused her to pitch back into one of the bedposts. She struck the carved wood hard, her head and spine banging against it. The net that covered her hair was only padded at the sides and offered little protection for her skull. The knock caused the world to jolt in her vision. Dazed, Isabel sank to the floor, holding the back of her head.
The earl stared down at his wife, his fists clenched, his face stained. ‘Do not push me, Isabel,’ he murmured, pointing a warning finger at her. ‘I have no patience for it, as well you know. The matter is closed.’ He straightened as the door to the adjacent chamber opened.
Agnes, one of Isabel’s maids, appeared. ‘My lord?’ She glanced nervously from the earl to Isabel, on the floor. ‘I thought I heard a – an accident?’