Insurrection: Renegade [02]

by Robyn Young

  Robert frowned, seeing Nes’s eyes dart to Humphrey. He nodded to the earl. ‘I’ll join you shortly.’ Waiting until Humphrey had disappeared inside, he turned to Nes. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Sir Ralph de Monthermer saw me waiting for you.’ Nes’s voice was strained. He glanced across the abbey grounds to the wall, beyond which lay the buildings of Westminster Palace. ‘He’s just now come from a hunt with the king. On their return, the king was given a letter found on William Wallace when he was captured by John of Menteith. Ralph doesn’t know what the letter said, but he heard the king order Aymer de Valence to arrest you.’

  ‘Arrest me?’ Robert felt something cold go through him. ‘For what?’

  ‘Ralph doesn’t know.’ Nes paused for breath. ‘But he said he owes you this much.’ The squire held out his hand and opened it. Lying on his palm, muddy from a day’s ride, was a pair of spurs.

  The message couldn’t have been clearer.

  ‘Run?’ Robert looked up at Nes. ‘Not without my brother.’

  Edward Bruce pushed back the hood of his cloak as he entered the prince’s chambers. Beads of rain glittered from the garment in the glow of the torches that illuminated the passageway. Except for the rushing sounds of a broom being swept across the floor somewhere above, the building was blessedly quiet, the prince and his men having gone straight to the palace kitchens on their return from Smithfield to demand food and ale. Edward had excused himself, unable to bear their abrasive talk and laughter, the death screams of William Wallace still echoing in his ears. The execution had left a bitter taste in his mouth and stripped away the illusions of camaraderie and comfort he had built around himself these past years, enabling him to play well the role of loyal vassal. A cold tide of anger, dammed by necessity, had now been unleashed in him.

  He felt furious at himself, cringing from the recollection of the times he had sat and drank with these men, laughing at their jokes about the barbarous Irish, the savage Welsh and the inferior Scots. How could his father have named him after the king? Barbarous? Savage? He could think of no better words to describe what Edward had done to Wallace on that scaffold today. The king’s ivory towers ran with blood.

  At the parliament tomorrow, whatever liberties the king granted in the new ordinances would not disguise the bonds that would shackle Scotland to England. Robert was due to arrive from Writtle any time, but so far as Edward knew his brother had received no word from John Comyn on the proposed alliance and there seemed little hope of the move to action he had been praying for. Edward would not have taken this path. Had he been born first he wouldn’t now be waiting for a Comyn to decide the fate of the Bruces and the kingdom. He would ride north tomorrow and crown himself king, using Wallace as a martyr to rally Scotland beneath his banner, and damn all who stood in his way.

  Reaching the stairs that led to his quarters, Edward climbed them. So lost to his thoughts was he that he didn’t notice the footsteps in the passage behind him. He halted halfway up the stairs at the sound of his name. Turning, he saw four men approaching. Their shadows came first, spreading dark along the torch-lit walls. As they drew closer, he saw Piers Gaveston at their head. The Gascon’s coal-black eyes had a strange, hungry look. As Piers moved towards him, Edward realised he had his sword in his hand.

  ‘Master Piers,’ Edward greeted, his eyes on the weapon. The others with the Gascon he knew well, all men of the prince’s household. They had their hands on the pommels of their blades, ready to draw them. ‘The ale has stopped flowing?’

  ‘It was flowing well enough,’ answered Piers. ‘Until we had a visit from one of the king’s men, ordering us to find you.’

  ‘Well, now you have, what do you want?’

  ‘We’re to arrest you.’

  Edward felt the last of his gloom fade, the world around him coming into sharp clarity. His heart began to thud, but he maintained a calm expression. Ever since he’d been witness to that embrace in the woods outside Burstwick, Piers had acted differently towards him. The prince had too, but while he seemed keen to draw Edward closer, Piers had become colder, more aggressive. Perhaps he was after spilling more Scots blood today, silencing the secret that lay between the three of them? ‘Arrest me?’ There were seven steps between Edward and the men. He was nearer the top than the bottom. ‘Is this a jest?’

  Piers smiled. ‘Your brother will be dealt with by the king’s men. You – my prince gave me the honour of taking.’

  The Gascon lunged, thrusting towards Edward, who turned and vaulted up the stairs. He had no sword, only a dirk in his belt that would be little use against four blades. At the top a passage stretched in two directions. Racing up, Edward saw a servant on hands and knees scrubbing at the tiles, a wooden bucket on the floor beside him. Grabbing it, he hurled it down the stairs. As the bucket fell with a rush of dirty water, Piers ducked. Hearing the bucket go crashing down the stairs, followed by a yelp of pain, Edward charged down the passage towards his quarters. He didn’t look back as footsteps filled the corridor behind him, along with a shout of alarm from the servant. Barrelling into the chamber at the end of the passage, he turned, catching a glimpse of Piers, dripping and furious, coming straight at him, before he slammed the door shut.

  Snapping the bolt across, skinning his knuckle in his haste, Edward scanned the room. He fixed on the stout armoire that stood against one wall, just as something crashed into the door. Grabbing the heavy piece of furniture, he heaved it across the boards, rucking up the rug, as the thud came again, the bolt threatening to spring off the frame with the force. The third strike was accompanied by the splintering of wood.

  ‘There’s nowhere to go, you son of a bitch!’ he heard Piers snarl.

  With a protesting screech, the armoire was finally wedged against the door. Edward leaned against it, fighting for breath, listening to the continuing thuds, interspersed by Piers’s threats and curses.

  Chapter 48

  After several more attempts they gave up trying to shoulder the door open.

  Piers’s voice lifted on the other side. ‘Geoffrey, Brian – you two stay here, make sure he doesn’t escape. We’ll fetch an axe from the wood-store.’

  Edward, leaning against the armoire, had no doubt Piers meant for him to hear this. The Gascon knew he had him trapped here. The chamber had one window, filled with leaded glass, too small for him to fit through. The whitewashed walls were of thick stone. As he listened to the footsteps fading down the passage, Edward eyed the boards under the crumpled rug, wondering if he could break his way through to the floor below. Geoffrey and Brian were slamming against the door again, causing the armoire to shudder. Parts of the frame were starting to splinter. Once they had an axe they would be through in moments.

  Edward’s thoughts that this was a personal vendetta on Piers’s part were fading, consumed by the evident gravity of his situation. Whatever they intended to arrest him and Robert for, it was clearly serious. Thoughts of William Wallace flashed in his mind. Had the outlaw, in desperation or through torture, given his executioners information that had betrayed his brother’s plan to lead a new uprising against the king and take the throne? He couldn’t imagine Wallace would do such a thing, but he had seen what they had done to him today. Might any man facing that kind of horror yield secrets he would have otherwise kept to his grave?

  Crossing the chamber, Edward went to the chest by his bed. He opened it and pulled out his sword. Behind him, the armoire jolted at another great thud against the door. Stamping on the boards, he chose a hollow-sounding area, away from any joists.

  ‘Open up, Edward.’ Geoffrey’s voice came muffled through the wood. ‘Whatever you’ve been accused of, it’ll go better for you if you come out willingly.’

  Edward looked over at the door. So they didn’t know what he was charged with? Geoffrey’s tone sounded reasonable, but the events of the day had been anything but. He no longer trusted the men in whose company he’d spent the past two years. Jamming the tip of his sword part way between
one of the gaps in the floor, he used it as a lever, trying to prise up the board. He cursed, realising it was well nailed down, the beam strong and unyielding. Rainwater and sweat trickled down his neck as he tried again, noting the pressure in the blade as the steel began to bend. Voices sounded in the passage, fainter now, as if the prince’s men had moved away. He couldn’t hear what they were saying.

  The voices rose suddenly into shouts of alarm. Moments later, pounding footsteps were followed by the ring of blades. Pulling his sword free, Edward grasped it two-handed, his brow furrowing as he stared at the door, beyond which came sounds of fighting. A familiar voice yelled his name, sending him rushing to the armoire, heaving it away. Snapping the bolt back, Edward opened the door to see his brother grappling with Brian. Geoffrey was on the floor, his face screwed up in pain. He was clutching his shoulder, blood oozing between his fingers.

  Robert was drenched, his clothes mud-splattered. He looked wild in the torchlight, eyes fierce as he battled the younger man. The passage was tight and Robert was forced half to duel, half to wrestle. Leaping Geoffrey, Edward moved in to help, managing to duck in behind Brian and lock an arm tight around his neck. The younger man began to choke. He clutched at Edward’s arm in panic, leaving Robert able to step in and wrench the sword from his grip. Edward kept his stranglehold until Brian was almost unconscious, then released him. The young man sank to the floor.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Robert urged, handing Brian’s sword to his brother and starting down the passage.

  Edward sprinted after him. ‘What the hell is happening?’ he demanded, as they raced down the steps, past the bucket he had thrown at Piers. ‘They tried to arrest me.’

  ‘It has something to do with a letter found on Wallace when he was captured. Ralph sent me a warning.’ Robert paused as they reached the door to the outside. Catching his breath, he opened it a crack and looked out. ‘We don’t have time to find the answers now. Nes and my men will meet us on the other side of the Tyburn with the horses.’

  ‘Gaveston will be back any moment.’

  ‘Then let’s be halfway to Scotland by then.’ Opening the door, Robert slipped out into the dank afternoon.

  The rain had eased. Great puddles stretched across the yard, mirroring the sky. The palace buildings rose around them, dwarfed by Westminster Hall. The precinct was busy as usual with clerks and lawyers, servants and courtiers. In the gaps between the buildings, Edward glimpsed the broad grey waters of the Thames. Following Robert’s lead, he pulled up his hood, concealing his sword beneath the folds of his cloak as they moved alongside the exterior of the prince’s chambers, which backed on to the orchards and gardens. Glancing over his shoulder, looking for sign of Piers, Edward saw a crowd of men gathered in the main yard outside Westminster Hall, some on foot, others mounted. Many had swords drawn. He recognised the colours of Henry Percy and Guy de Beauchamp among them. As Edward watched, more joined them. ‘Do you think that’s for our benefit?’

  Robert followed his gaze. ‘Only Ralph and Humphrey know I’ve returned. Unless they’ve seen any of my men the others shouldn’t know I’m here yet.’

  ‘They’ll know soon enough when Piers finds Brian and Geoffrey,’ said Edward grimly. ‘We shouldn’t have left them able to talk.’

  ‘I’m not going to add murder to whatever charge has been levelled at me.’ Robert ducked into a gap in a row of rose bushes and led the way between the fruit trees, boots splashing through the puddles. The sun shone for a moment, bright and brief, turning everything silver, before winking behind the cloud cover once more.

  Ahead, beyond a low line of storehouses, Westminster Abbey rose above its surrounding wall, alongside which the road ran across the Tyburn towards London. Robert slipped between two storehouses, from which drifted a pungent smell of fermenting apples. Edward went after him, snagging his cloak on a rusty nail, stumbling free. Halfway down the narrow passage he heard the clop of hooves ahead, along with the whinny of a horse and a man’s raised voice. Edward recognised the abrasive tone immediately.

  Robert, intent on reaching the road, didn’t seem to have noticed the danger. He had almost stepped out from between the storehouses into view before Edward caught him. Grasping him by the shoulder, he pulled his brother back against the wall. In doing so, he caught a glimpse of horsemen on the road, only yards away, all wearing the arms of Pembroke.

  Humphrey headed out of the abbey grounds, the prayers he had said for Bess lingering in his mind. The words had opened up the familiar hollow in his chest, where some vital part of him had been torn away. He filled it with things most of the time: his business for the king and the running of his estates, the numbing sweetness of wine and, once, a whore’s adept embrace. But nothing properly fitted the space, the edges empty, raw.

  Passing through the archway in the wall, he moved through the lines of pilgrims and beggars making their way towards the abbey, all hoping for a glimpse of the four sacred relics of Britain or a boon from the almoners’ box. Humphrey was drawn from his gloom by Aymer de Valence who came riding up to meet him, accompanied by several knights. Valence’s blue and white striped mantle was flecked with mud, Humphrey assumed from the hunt. The king had invited him to join the party, but he had declined.

  ‘Have you seen Robert Bruce?’ Aymer demanded.

  ‘Why?’ Humphrey asked, unable to keep the dislike from his tone. He and Aymer had often crossed swords in the days when they were both Knights of the Dragon, but they had always maintained a civility despite their disagreements. Until the Forest raid.

  ‘The king ordered me to arrest him.’

  ‘I warn you, Aymer,’ Humphrey said flatly, ‘I’m in no mood for your madness.’ He went to walk away, but Aymer kicked his horse into his path.

  The knight leaned towards Humphrey from his saddle. His black eyes were lit with pleasure. ‘Wallace had a letter on him when he was captured. It implicates Bruce in a conspiracy against our king.’ The satisfaction in Aymer’s eyes increased with Humphrey’s frown.

  ‘What conspiracy?’

  ‘The letter was addressed to the High Steward of Scotland, ordering him to raise his tenants in preparation for an uprising against King Edward and the English garrisons in Scotland and to make ready for the coronation of a new king.’ Aymer’s lips peeled back, revealing the wire that held his front teeth together. ‘Bruce’s coronation.’

  Humphrey shook his head, refusing to believe it. Robert had been with them for three years. He had lived among them, drank and laughed with them, feasted and prayed. He had fought with them, spilling the blood of his countrymen to aid their king. Now, he worked for peace, to end the war and create a kingdom united beneath Edward’s banner.

  ‘The letter details Bruce’s plan to return to Scotland,’ continued Aymer, ‘to crown himself king and lead a rebellion, exploiting the weaknesses of the garrisons at Stirling, Edinburgh and Lochmaben. Wallace was no doubt on his way to deliver it to James Stewart, which was why he came out of hiding and how Menteith was able to capture him.’

  ‘You’re saying it was written by Robert himself? Bearing his seal?’

  ‘It wasn’t sealed, but the author is clear.’

  ‘Someone planted it on Wallace,’ Humphrey said, his voice rising in anger. ‘Someone wanted you to find it. To discredit him.’

  Aymer shook his head disgustedly. ‘Why is it so easy for you to believe him when he has lied to us before? Betrayed us! No Scot would discredit Bruce if this was his plan. They would want this to happen!’

  ‘There is some other explanation,’ Humphrey insisted. He recalled Robert’s comfort and his words of understanding after the death of Bess and his unborn child. It cannot have been lies. ‘I will not accept—’ Humphrey stopped, seeing two men riding towards them from the palace yard. He recognised them from the prince’s household.

  ‘Sir Aymer!’ called one, ignoring the pilgrims who were forced to scatter out of his way as he hauled his horse to a skidding stop. ‘Master Piers had Edward Bruce tr
apped in his quarters. Robert Bruce helped him escape, attacking our men. The king’s knights are searching all the buildings.’

  Aymer spat a curse, then turned on Humphrey. ‘Tell me, would an innocent man run?’ He spoke quickly to his knights. ‘We’ll place men at every exit. They won’t get far.’

  ‘Wait!’ shouted Humphrey, as Aymer went to kick his horse away.

  Aymer twisted in his saddle.

  ‘I saw Robert. He was going to join me in prayer in the abbey, but his squire arrived with a message. He never came.’

  ‘Spread out,’ said Aymer to his men. ‘Search the grounds. Turn the palace inside out. Find the renegade!’

  As Aymer and his knights spurred away, Humphrey stood there for a moment. Lifting his face to the rain, he closed his eyes. Robert, watching him from the cover of the alley between the apple stores, saw his confusion, his suffering. Guilt tightened its knot in his chest. Leaning back against the wall, he rested his head against the stone. There it was, his betrayal finally revealed, his treachery laid bare in the face of his friend. His brother was peering around the side of the store, his brow creased with concern.

  ‘Valence has sent two of his men down to the bridge. We’ll not get out that way.’ Edward looked back at him. ‘Robert – what they said – the letter?’ He shook his head. ‘How can Wallace have had any such thing? Please tell me you didn’t write it?’

  ‘I didn’t. But someone who knows the truth did.’ Robert pushed himself from the wall. ‘As soon as they discover we’re not in the palace they’ll start searching the road. Nes is waiting out there with the horses. If they get to him first we’re done for.’ Beyond a patch of scrubby ground and a low fence, the road bordering the wall was still busy with people filing into the abbey. Humphrey had gone, heading through the palace grounds towards Westminster Hall. Robert paused. ‘Maybe I should stay? Deny it? You heard Humphrey: he thought the letter might have been placed on Wallace. Maybe I can convince them it was?’