by Robyn Young
‘My wife took a tumble, Agnes,’ said the earl. ‘Help her would you.’ As Agnes hurried to the countess’s side, the Black Comyn crossed to the door. ‘I will send the porters in an hour. Make sure you are ready to leave.’ He shut the door behind him.
Isabel took her hand from her head and stared at the spot of blood on her palm. She was always surprised by its redness.
‘There, there, my lady,’ murmured the maid, making shushing noises as she helped the countess to her feet. ‘Come and sit at the mirror. I will set your hair right.’
‘I am fine, Agnes,’ said Isabel, but she let the maid lead her to the stool in front of a small table, which had a silver mirror on it. She sat staring at her white face in the looking-glass as Agnes removed the net and pins, and her black hair tumbled free. In the mirror it was as though it was happening to somebody else. A numbness settled over her as her body moved obediently in the glass, following the maid’s instructions to tilt her head this way or that. Only her eyes showed any sign of life. So dark blue they were almost indigo, they were like two frozen pools, with glints in the depths. Deep down in Isabel, tides of anger and resentment flowed, but under an icy sheet of fear and indecision all that strength remained hidden, trapped beneath the surface.
Chapter 44
Burstwick, England, 1304 AD
It was approaching twilight as Robert and his men rode into the royal manor, the clatter of hooves echoing off the walls of the buildings. Firelight gleamed in the windows and wood-smoke stung the frigid air. Servants hastened across the yard on errands, watched by sentries outside the doors of the main hall. From the stables and paddocks came the noise and stink of several hundred horses.
Dismounting, Robert saw a camp crowded with tents and wagons set up on a meadow opposite, where men moved in the gloaming. The English army had been disbanded after the fall of Stirling, infantry trickling back to farmsteads and villages, knights and lords to their estates, but the king’s considerable household remained. Robert, riding hard from Badenoch to the Borders, where he had travelled into England in the footsteps of the king, had been surprised to learn that Edward hadn’t moved any further south. As grooms emerged from the stables to take the horses, Fionn trotting over to greet them, he wondered what had caused the delay.
Staring around him, he sensed a strange hush hanging over the manor. No music or laughter drifted from the camp. The servants moved about their business in silence and the sentries seemed subdued. Leaving his own men to unload his belongings, Robert was going over to speak to them when a door in one of the buildings opened and his brother appeared.
Edward Bruce headed over, blowing into his hands at the chill in the air. ‘I thought it was you. Welcome back, brother.’
Robert smiled, glad to see him. ‘I didn’t expect to see you until I reached Westminster. Why is the king still here?’
‘He took ill shortly after we left Scotland. His physician advised him to rest here.’
‘Is it serious?’
‘No. In fact he was on the mend. We were due to leave last week, but then . . .’ Edward paused. ‘Your tidings first, brother.’ He glanced over at the guards, but they were engrossed in their own conversation. ‘How did you fare with Comyn?’ He kept his voice low.
‘He listened. That is all I can say with any certainty. He said he would give me his answer when he’d had time to think on it. So, for now, I wait.’ Robert lifted his shoulders as if shrugging off a burden. ‘I met with our brothers at Lochindorb. Niall and Thomas send their greetings. They are safe.’
A smile broke across Edward’s face. ‘Thank God.’ He laughed in relief. ‘I feared the worst when the Irish attacked Rothesay.’
‘Sir, where shall we put these?’
As Nes called to him Robert saw that his men had unloaded the packs from the horses. He frowned and looked around him, wondering why no steward or official had come out to greet him. ‘Can I stow my gear in your quarters for now?’ he asked his brother. ‘I should speak to the king if he’ll see me. John Comyn and the Earl of Buchan agreed to sit on his new council. God willing,’ he murmured, ‘it will all serve to keep him preoccupied.’
‘I would wait for now,’ advised Edward. ‘His daughter died five days ago.’
‘Lady Joan?’ Robert’s thoughts went to Ralph de Monthermer.
‘No, brother. It was Bess. She passed away in labour. The child too.’
Robert’s mind flooded with an image of a fire-lit chamber, his wife lying limp on the bed, her ashen face greasy with sweat. Between Isobel’s legs, a wad of linen was darkening with her blood. More stained the covers, the copper smell of it joined by the acrid stink of smoke from the fires that still burned around the city of Carlisle. His daughter, born in a siege, was swaddled in cloth and being cradled by the midwife. Close by the bed, a priest hovered like a crow over his dying wife. ‘Where is Sir Humphrey?’ he asked quickly.
‘He was away on the king’s business. He returned only last night.’
‘Take me to him.’
‘Robert, I don’t think—’ Edward broke off, seeing the resolve in his face. ‘Very well.’
Robert followed his brother across the courtyard and into one of the timber-framed buildings. All the way down the passage, he kept seeing that chamber in his mind. He had only been married to Isobel of Mar for a year and the union had been his family’s wish, a match for gain not love. Still, her death had pained him. For Humphrey and Bess their marriage had only cemented their affection. While Robert had taken comfort in his daughter, pulled alive from that bloody bed, Humphrey had lost two lives in one night.
Approaching a chamber at the end of the passage, he saw the door was open. Hoarse shouts came from within. Robert entered a scene of devastation. Covers, ripped from the bed, were strewn across the floor, along with items of armour. An overturned table, legs splintered, lay among the shards of a shattered jug and basin. Chests against the wall were open, clothes and books spilled out around them. One of the bedposts looked as though someone had taken a blade to it, gashes carving the wood. There were four men in here – Robert Clifford, Ralph de Monthermer and two of Humphrey’s knights – warily watching a fifth figure in the centre. It took Robert a moment to recognise his friend.
Humphrey de Bohun was swaying on his feet, his brown hair flattened on his skull where his helm had sat, his undershirt stained with a dark stream of vomit. His face was feverish and his eyes were bloodshot slits. In one hand he clutched a wine skin, in the other his sword. The weapon’s beautifully filigreed scabbard – a gift from Bess – was on the floor at his feet. He was shouting at the men watching him, ordering them to fetch his horse.
Ralph de Monthermer was talking to him, trying to calm him down, but Humphrey wasn’t listening. Ralph turned in surprise as Robert pushed past him. Paying the knight’s warning no heed, Robert crossed to Humphrey, stepping over the debris. Humphrey fixed on him with difficulty, swinging his sword. The strike was slow and clumsy and Robert sidestepped it easily. He grabbed Humphrey’s sword-arm at the wrist, at the same time gripping the earl’s shoulder. ‘Humphrey,’ he said, following the man’s unfocused gaze with his own. ‘Let go.’
Humphrey focused on him. ‘Robert?’ he croaked.
‘Let go of the sword, Humphrey.’
The earl’s grip loosened. The weapon slid from his fingers and clanged on the floor. Ralph moved in to take it. As Humphrey sagged and sank to his knees, Robert went with him, still holding him by the shoulders. The wine skin slipped from Humphrey’s other hand. Claret gushed dark across the rug as he collapsed against Robert.
Crouched there in the wreckage of the chamber, Humphrey gripping his arms, Robert’s mind emptied of all plans and preoccupations. The compulsion towards Scotland’s throne, that goaded him like a spur in his side, faded. With it went his concerns over what John Comyn’s answer to his proposal would be and the knowledge of the great fight that lay before him if his enemy agreed to support his bid. For this moment, he was just a man,
holding on to a friend who might drown in the expanse of his grief.
Skipness, Scotland, 1305 AD
‘My lord, you have visitors.’
John of Menteith straightened, turning from the table over which he was stooped. His steward was standing in the doorway. ‘Keep working,’ he ordered his accountant, tapping at the rolls that lay open on the table. ‘Who is it?’ he asked, crossing to the door with a frown. Looking past his steward into the hall that lay beyond his chamber, he saw a band of men standing there, a tall figure in a white surcoat at their head.
Menteith felt unease crawl in his stomach. ‘Captain MacDouall,’ he greeted, clearing his throat and forcing his lips into a taut smile as he entered the hall. ‘This is unexpected.’
Dungal MacDouall had one gloved hand resting on the pommel of his broadsword. His other arm hung at his side, no hand visible beneath the sleeve of his gambeson. ‘Why unexpected?’ His tone was flat and cold. ‘The Earl of Buchan told you I would come.’
‘Indeed,’ replied Menteith, with a thin laugh, ‘but since half the barons of Scotland have been hunting Wallace without success, I imagined this business would take somewhat longer.’ He stopped abruptly, realising there was a figure in the group behind the captain, being held between two men. A hood covered his head, which jerked blindly this way and that. ‘Who is that?’
MacDouall didn’t take his gaze off Menteith. ‘You still travel to Glasgow regularly?’
Menteith flushed, knowing the captain must know full well he did by the state of his castle. He cringed as his gaze caught the whitewashed walls where brighter rectangles clearly showed where wall-hangings had once been draped. The winter straw hadn’t yet been swept out and replaced with rushes, even though the new year was advancing into spring, and the top table had a broken leg bound in place with rope. Over the past year, most of the money for his hall’s upkeep had trickled into the hands of the men who ran the bear-baiting pens and cock-fighting rings in the city. ‘Yes,’ he murmured. ‘I still travel to Glasgow.’
‘Good. It is from the settlements around the city where the reports of sightings have come most recently. But Wallace still has many friends among the peasantry, which is how he has managed to evade his hunters. He will need to be drawn out, as we told you.’
Menteith turned away. ‘I am still not sure how you think I can do this.’
MacDouall’s voice roughened. ‘You’d better not be losing your nerve, Sir John. You swore to my lord you would help us when the time came.’ He paused, biting back his temper. ‘We know you have not fared well since the surrender; that paying King Edward the dues for your family’s forfeited estates has all but ruined you. This is your chance to regain your fortune.’
‘But how will I draw him out?’ demanded Menteith, looking MacDouall in the eye. ‘How do you know he will come?’
MacDouall nodded to the two men who held the hooded figure. One of them tugged off the hood to reveal a bald head and bruised face. Even with the torn lips, blackened cheek and swollen eye, Menteith recognised Gray – Wallace’s second-in-command.
‘We caught him in Lanark, gathering supplies,’ said MacDouall, a note of satisfaction in his voice as he surveyed his captive. ‘My men have been watching the town for months.’
Menteith went to take hold of the captain’s arm, but thinking better of it settled for a jerk of his head, steering MacDouall away from Gray, who was staring at them through bloodshot eyes. ‘Why in Christ’s name did you let him see us?’ he seethed beneath his breath. ‘He knows we are both involved now!’
‘That does not matter. He is just for bait. I need you to go to Glasgow and use your acquaintances there to start spreading the word that you have captured Gray and are willing to free him in return for a ransom. Do it carefully. We want Wallace to get wind of who has his man, but not the others who are hunting him, or the English. You must be the one to seize the outlaw, or our plan will be sunk.’ MacDouall nodded to one of his men, who moved out of the group.
Menteith saw the man was carrying a small chest.
‘This is just to help you grease any wheels,’ said MacDouall. ‘There will be more if you succeed.’
Menteith took the chest, feeling its weight like a promise.
Chapter 45
Near Glasgow, Scotland, 1305 AD
A line of sweat dribbled down Menteith’s face. As he wiped it away a cloud of flies swarmed up from the twitching flanks of his horse. It was almost midday and the sky was white with heat. The dead air rippled over the road. Insects swarmed in clouds, drawn by the sweat-stink of the men and horses who stood waiting at the crossroads as the sun arced higher.
Menteith unhooked the wine skin that hung from his saddle, his gaze passing over his men. Eighteen in number, they were grouped around a covered wagon. His knights were stooping under the weight of their mail, their visors raised to let in what little air there was. A few sat hunched in their saddles while others leaned in the sliver of shade offered by the wagon as their squires let their horses graze along the verge. To the left, the road climbed into woods. To the right it crossed a steep-banked burn by the hump of a stone bridge before meandering across a meadow where a dilapidated barn stood. Behind, it faded into the distance curving around the hills, heading for Glasgow. Shortly after they arrived, one of his men thought he’d spied figures in the woods to their left, but the scouts Menteith sent out returned without seeing sign of anyone. That was three hours ago.
Menteith lifted the skin and drank, grimacing at the taste of the wine, which had grown hot and syrupy. His eyes scanned the road, but other than the flicker of birds there was no movement. Maybe Wallace wasn’t going to come after all. Or maybe he was here already, watching, waiting to wear them down in the sapping heat before he made his move? From what he knew of the rebel leader, Menteith guessed this was a tactic he would use. Since the start of the war the man had raided, ambushed and murdered his way across the Lowlands and northern England. Though he despised him, Menteith couldn’t deny Wallace’s aptitude for cunning and carnage.
Out here on this open crossroads, baking under the noonday sun, he felt horribly exposed. There was plenty of cover in the hills and woods around them; plenty of places for a sizeable force to keep hidden. Wallace had a number of archers from Selkirk Forest in his band. Perhaps, somewhere in those trees, a score of bows were aimed at him. Menteith returned the wine skin to his belt and took up the reins, feeling as though he couldn’t get enough air in his lungs. Would Wallace take the bait? Or would he attack without warning, rescue his comrade and slaughter them to a man? His skin crawling with sweat, flies and a strengthening sense of danger, Menteith turned his palfrey with a tug. ‘God curse him!’
‘Sir?’ questioned one of his knights, as Menteith urged his horse towards the wagon.
Ignoring him, Menteith leaned towards the closed flaps. ‘I’ll bake to death before the whoreson shows!’
‘Patience,’ came the taut reply from inside the wagon. ‘Wallace will come. He will want to make certain you have no reinforcements before he shows himself to you.’
‘How much longer do we wait?’
‘Sir.’
Menteith didn’t look round as one of his men called to him, but kept his attention on the wagon. ‘How long?’
‘Sir John!’
‘What, damn you?’
‘Riders, sir.’ The knight pointed up the wooded slope to the left.
Straightening in his saddle, Menteith followed his gaze. A company of men had appeared on the fringes of the trees. It was a small group, no more than ten. They came unhurriedly, leaning back in their saddles.
‘Is it him?’ demanded the voice from inside the wagon.
Menteith’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the approaching riders, searching for William Wallace. None of them seemed large enough of stature to be the outlaw, but the distance made it hard to tell. Most of them wore hats or hoods and it was impossible to pick out faces. If this was Wallace’s band he had avoided any of the r
oads in, as anticipated, but Menteith was surprised by the small number. Several hundred men had gone on the run with the outlaw after the rebellion collapsed and even accounting for desertions and deaths, surely his band wouldn’t have dwindled to so few? He couldn’t imagine Wallace would be fool enough to come with such a modest force. Even his token eighteen men outnumbered them. Menteith licked the sweat from his upper lip, feeling a flutter of expectation.
One of the riders split away from the rest, spurring his horse down the shallow slope towards them. He came to a stop, just out of bowshot. Menteith recognised Neil Campbell. The knight from Argyll had been in Wallace’s company since the early days of the insurrection.
‘I have your ransom, John of Menteith!’ shouted Campbell. ‘Where is Gray?’
‘Is it him?’
As the voice came again from the wagon, Menteith glanced round distractedly. ‘No,’ he murmured. ‘It’s one of his men. Campbell.’ He looked back at the Argyll knight. ‘What do I do?’
There was movement from inside the wagon. A tall figure emerged and jumped down. He wore an iron helm that covered his face and a plain cloak over his hauberk and gambeson. There was nothing identifiable about him – no crests or blazons – nothing except the fact his left hand was missing. Two others emerged behind MacDouall, wearing similarly plain garments and hauling Gray, hooded and bound, between them. Their captive struggled, but MacDouall drew his sword and moved in behind him. Locking his left arm under Gray’s chin, pulling his head roughly back, he laid the blade across his neck.
‘Tell him Wallace was supposed to deliver it. Tell him, because of their failure to comply your terms have changed.’ MacDouall’s voice came muffled through the helm as he spoke to Menteith. ‘Say you want more money, or you’ll slit Gray’s throat.’
Menteith relayed this to Campbell with a hoarse shout.