Kingdom

by Young, Robyn

  Also by Robyn Young

  The Insurrection Trilogy

  Insurrection

  Renegade

  The Brethren Trilogy

  Brethren

  Crusade

  Requiem

  Kingdom

  Robyn Young

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2014 by Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Robyn Young 2014

  The right of Robyn Young to be identified as the Author of the Work

  has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright,

  Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

  stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any

  means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be

  otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that

  in which it is published and without a similar condition being

  imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious or are historical figures

  whose words and actions are fictitious. Any resemblance to real

  persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978 1 444 71514 9

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  Acknowledgements

  Writing a novel always seems like a solitary endeavour, until you get to this part and realise what a great number of people aided you along the way.

  I would first like to thank the experts I turned to, from the authors of the many books I plundered for knowledge to the guides and curators at scores of historical sites I visited during my months of research, whose enthusiasm helped bring these places to life.

  A special thank you goes to historian Marc Morris for reading the manuscript – his red pen once again helping spare me from too red a face. I’m also indebted to Edward J. Cowan for the memorable walk in Glen Trool, to Fiona Watson for granting me invaluable access to her report on the Battle of Bannockburn, to Scott McMaster at the Bannockburn Heritage Centre for the incredible tour of the battle site, to Duncan Thomson, Sarah Crome and all at the Robert the Bruce Heritage Centre for the warm welcome, and to Robert Low for the information on Viking boat burnings.

  In this dawning digital age I feel it’s especially important to thank the host of people who contributed to this novel behind the scenes – for their passion, their skill and their support.

  A huge thank you first of all goes to my assistant, Becky Smith, for keeping everything running so smoothly. My gratitude goes to my agent, Rupert Heath, to Camilla Ferrier and everyone at the Marsh Agency, to Dan Conaway at Writers’ House, Meg Davis at Ki Agency and Roberta Oliva. A heartfelt thank you also to all my editors, translators and publishing teams overseas, whose hard work is very much appreciated.

  I am hugely grateful, as always, to the fantastic team at Hodder & Stoughton, with special thanks to my editor, Nick Sayers, for his patience and insight, to Laura Macdougall, Kerry Hood, Lucy Hale, Catherine Worsley, Ben Gutcher, Lucy Upton, Auriol Bishop, Alexandra Percy, Laura del Vescovo and Jamie Hodder-Williams, as well as to everyone in publicity, sales, marketing, foreign rights and art and production, with a huge round of applause to Lee Wilson for the fabulous cover!

  Thank you to my copy-editor Morag Lyall, proofreader Barbara Westmore and to the reps, especially Jack and Gillian for looking after me in Scotland. My sincere appreciation as well to all the booksellers, without whom this book wouldn’t reach you, with a special thank you to David, Daniel and the staff at Goldsboro Books for helping me to launch the trilogy in style.

  Finally, my thanks and love to all my friends for their support and their friendship, with an extra special shout out to my fellow witches for the light in dark places. And, lastly, to Lee, for everything – thank you, my love.

  Contents

  Map of Britain 1306 AD

  Prologue

  PART 1

  PART 2

  PART 3

  PART 4

  PART 5

  PART 6

  Epilogue

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  CHARACTER LIST

  GLOSSARY

  SUCCESSION TO THE SCOTTISH THRONE

  BIBLIOGRAPHY

  For we fight not for glory nor riches nor honours, but for freedom alone, which no good man gives up except with his life.

  The Declaration of Arbroath, 1320 AD

  Prologue

  1292 AD

  After this shall succeed two dragons, whereof one shall be killed with the sting of envy, but the other shall return under the shadow of a name.

  The History of the Kings of Britain, Geoffrey of Monmouth

  Lochmaben, Scotland

  1292 AD

  They were leaving, while dusk stole the last of the light. In the November gloom the men’s faces were pale patches in the shadows of their hoods. Few spoke as they worked, porters hefting chests on to the wagons, squires checking harnesses on the carthorses and moving between those knights already mounted on their palfreys, tugging at girths and adjusting stirrups, their frozen fingers struggling with buckles. The air was misty with rain, which darkened the thatch on the timber buildings that crowded the bailey and turned the courtyard to a slick of horse dung, earth and mouldering leaves.

  Robert watched the preparations, Uathach’s leash looped around his fist. A week ago the place had been teeming with lords and their retinues arriving for the feast, the bailey echoing with voices and laughter, music and firelight spilling from his grandfather’s hall. A week ago he had crossed this yard with Eva, her skirts rustling as she moved at his side, the flush of wine leached from his face by the frosty dark. But then the tidings had come, heralded by the iron ring of hooves and borne in the mouths of the messengers; five words that had changed everything.

  John Balliol will be king.

  Only a week? It seemed much longer.

  Robert looked round as two servants struggled out of the building behind him, bearing a wicker basket from which items of clothing trailed, packed in haste. Uathach sprang towards them barking, but fell back at a rough jerk of the leash. Settling against his boot, the pup looked questioningly up at his unsmiling face. As the servants headed for the wagons, Robert saw a scrap of material had fallen from the basket, a white wrinkle on the dark ground. Crossing to it, he picked it up. It was one of his mother’s veils, now stained with mud. Hearing a soft voice behind him, barely audible over the thud and scrape of the chests being loaded, he turned.

  Countess Marjorie smiled as she reached him, placing a cool hand over his, which held the soiled veil. ‘Agnes will deal with that.’

  Over the past year, Robert had grown tall, the sudden surge raising him above his once formidable mother, who in the same time had seemed to shrink. Looking down on her now, swamped by her fur-trimmed travel cloak, he felt like a giant; his hands, calloused from his sword, dwarfing hers, his arms, corded with muscle, capable of crushing her thin frame. He thought of the watery bloodstains on the sheets he had seen Agnes, her laundress, carrying from the chamber earlier that afternoon. ‘This is madness,’ he murmured. ‘Stay. At least for the night.’

  Marjorie’s smile faded. Her brow furrowed as she looked away. ‘Your father has arranged to lodge with one of your grandfather’s vassals tonight. His hall is on our road home.’

  ‘Then you stay. Grandfather can have you escorted safe to Turnberry when you are well.’

  ‘He has made his decision.’ Marjorie’s eyes flicked b
ack to him, harder now and set, something of her old strength within them. ‘My place is with him.’

  Robert wondered if he heard accusation in his mother’s tone. Did she too blame him for his grandfather’s decision?

  She seemed to sense his question, for she squeezed his hand. ‘Your father has accepted the lord’s judgement. Carrick is yours, by his seal. Now he must return home to set his affairs in order. Give him time, Robert. He will come to accept it in his heart.’

  He wanted to tell her they both knew this wasn’t true, but then his sisters emerged from their lodgings, Isabel calling to the countess.

  ‘Our chambers are empty, Mother. We are ready to leave.’ She glanced at Robert as she spoke.

  Marjorie nodded to her eldest daughter. ‘Get your sisters settled.’

  Dutifully, Isabel Bruce led her three younger siblings across the mud-slick courtyard, pulling her hood up against the rain. It was falling harder now, drumming on the waxed canvas covering the wagons. Christian walked at Isabel’s side, looking over at Robert as she passed. He gave his fair-haired sister a reassuring smile, which she returned only briefly, worry plain in her face. Their governess followed, holding the hand of Matilda, who traipsed along reluctantly, eyes red from crying. Seven-year-old Mary came last, arms folded tightly across her chest, refusing to be led. They were all subdued, the younger two ignorant of the circumstances, but sensing the tension in the adults, the older girls aware that this flight from Lochmaben signified more than just the bitter end of a long battle for the Bruce family; that it was perhaps the ending of their family itself.

  A harsh voice cut across the murmurs of the men making ready to depart. Robert saw his father had appeared and was ordering the servants to bring torches. His hulking frame was made even larger by a heavy black cloak that swung from his shoulders as he gestured brusquely for his squire to bring his horse. For Robert, the absence of his white mantle, emblazoned with the red chevron of Carrick, was strange. He looked like a different person. The cloak’s hood was pushed back and his father’s thin hair was dripping with rain. At his side was Edward Bruce, his youthful face pensive. With Niall and Thomas in fosterage in Antrim and Alexander training for the priesthood, Edward was the only one of Robert’s brothers present for this.

  Catching sight of his wife, the elder Bruce strode over. ‘It is time,’ he said gruffly, keeping his gaze on the countess.

  Marjorie turned to Robert. ‘Farewell,’ she murmured, cradling his cheek with her hand. ‘I will pray for you tomorrow, when you receive the sword and spurs.’

  Slipping from him, she paused to kiss Edward, before moving to the wagon her daughters had climbed into. The carriage wasn’t fit for a countess, but she was now too weak to ride. While the porters helped her inside, servants passed torches up to the mounted squires, the flames guttering and hissing in the wet.

  Robert faced his father. He wanted to demand why he was dragging his wife and daughters out on the road in the rain and dark, but the look on his father’s face stopped the words in his mouth. That rigid expression was answer enough. Robert felt a surge of anger, not towards his father, but his grandfather, whose actions this day had caused the rift between them to widen, perhaps to a point that could not now be bridged. The old man wasn’t even here to witness it.

  ‘I will do right by the people of Carrick, Father,’ Robert said suddenly, feeling the need to justify himself. ‘I will govern them by your example.’

  His father flinched. His face, mottled by the wine that had soured his breath, flushed a deeper shade of red. ‘When your mother is well enough, I will take Isabel to Norway. King Eric has been without a queen long past mourning. Your sister will offer a decent prospect. You rule your new earldom as you see fit, Robert. But be assured, I will not stay to see it.’

  With that, he strode to his horse.

  Robert had seen disappointment in his father’s glacial eyes, anger and frustration, but never had he seen such cold resentment. It shook him.

  As the knights and squires formed up, their horses jostling, Edward came to stand at Robert’s side. Together, the brothers watched the wagons roll towards the castle gates, which stood in the shadow of the motte that rose above the bailey, crowned by its stone keep. The guards at the palisade hauled open the barriers and the company funnelled through, the gusting light of the torches fading with the thudding hooves.

  Glancing down as Uathach strained at her leash, Robert realised his mother’s veil was still crumpled in his hand. ‘Where is he?’

  Edward looked round at the sharp question. He studied his brother’s face. ‘Down by the loch with Scáthach, I think.’

  Stuffing the veil into Edward’s hand, Robert set off between the buildings. Passing the chapel and kitchens, he headed for a smaller gate in the palisade.

  The last light was vanishing as he took the boggy path through the trees that led down to Kirk Loch. Uathach, off her leash now the horses were gone, trotted at his side as he quickened his pace. The patter of rain striking the webbed canopy of branches was loud. After a short distance, the trees opened out on a bank that sloped down to the shore of the small loch. It stretched before him, a pale mirror of the rain-drenched sky. Standing on the reed-fringed banks, looking out over the water, was a tall man in a hooded cloak.

  As Robert walked towards him, there was a low growl and a sinewy shape came slinking out of the gloom. He paused for Scáthach to get his scent, then made his way down the bank, leaving Uathach to greet her mother with a volley of barks.

  The Lord of Annandale didn’t turn at the sound, nor did he look round as Robert came to stand beside him. ‘They have gone?’

  Robert stared at his grandfather, whose face was half hidden by his hood, only his hawk-like nose visible in profile. Despite his seventy years he was still broad-shouldered and erect. Robert felt a new emotion as he studied the man who had raised him as a son, taught him to hunt and to fight, and had forged in him an iron pride in his family’s heritage. It was distrust. Unfamiliar and unwelcome, it tightened in his chest as he thought of how he had become a chess piece, pushed on to the board by his grandfather in a move against his father. He stood now alone, a pawn between two men who wanted to be king.

  ‘You have something to say, Robert?’ Now the lord did turn, fixing him with his gaze. His mane of hair, trapped by his hood, clouded white on the edges of his hard, lined face.

  Robert met the challenge in those dark eyes. ‘He blames me.’

  ‘I know.’

  Robert gritted his teeth and looked out over the loch. Rain peppered the surface. He thought of Affraig, whose appearance that afternoon had been the harbinger for the events that followed. He wondered if the witch was still in Lochmaben or whether she had already left for her home in Turnberry, on the same road his family had taken. He thought of her withered hand touching his grandfather’s face with affection; the same hands that brought him into the world eighteen years ago and wove men’s destinies out of herbs, twigs and bones to be strung like webs in the tree outside her hovel. ‘Did you do it because Affraig asked it of you? Was it revenge against my father? For what his man did to her?’

  ‘Revenge? No, boy, I bestowed this honour upon you because I think you worthy. Affraig came because she believes, as I, that the strength of my line lies in you – not in my son. His time is passing, as is mine. We tried to uphold our claim. We failed.’

  Robert listened, unable to reconcile these words with the optimism a week ago at the feast, when they were all still confident King Edward of England would choose the old lord to sit upon the throne of Scotland, empty since the tragic death of King Alexander. This past year, during the trial to choose Alexander’s successor, Robert had watched proudly as his grandfather, an illustrious player on the stage of Britain for almost sixty years, garnered the full-throated support of some of the greatest barons of the realm, in the hope of accepting that accolade. Now, the lion of a man beside him, who had fought the infidel on the sands of Palestine and served four
kings, had been pushed aside and he, Robert, had been thrust into his place. Tomorrow, he would be knighted and, taking Carrick from his father, would become one of the thirteen earls of Scotland.

  ‘On the feast of St Andrew, John Balliol will be seated on the Stone of Destiny.’ The lord closed his eyes and inhaled, his chest expanding under the sodden folds of his cloak. ‘They will already be preparing the Moot Hill. The men of the realm will soon make their way to Scone.’ His face drew in, his brow knotting. ‘The Comyns will no doubt be first among them, crowing about their victory. Balliol will give his allies whatever offices they desire. Our days in the royal court are over.’ When he spoke again his voice was low. ‘But the wheel turns. Always it turns.’

  ‘Wheel?’ When there was no answer, Robert pressed him. ‘Grandfather?’

  ‘On the Wheel of Fortune a man may rise from nothing to the very height of greatness, but tomorrow, when the same wheel turns, he will be brought tumbling back to earth.’ The lord’s eyes narrowed as he stared out over the loch. ‘It turns for all of us.’

  ‘Are our lands safe?’ Robert asked him, after a pause. ‘Will Balliol and the Comyns retaliate for our attack on their strongholds? For the deaths at Buittle Castle?’

  ‘I do not believe so. But it is another reason to pass our family’s claim to you. You were not part of that campaign. The blood of their people is not on your hands.’ He studied Robert. ‘You swore that you accepted the charge – to uphold our family’s claim to the throne of Scotland, no matter the pretenders who sit upon it in defiance of our right. Your face now tells a different story.’

  Robert felt rain threading coldly down his neck. That afternoon, when his grandfather told him he would inherit both the earldom of Carrick and the Bruce claim to the throne, he had been so stunned that he had sworn the oath his grandfather demanded of him without question. Now, he felt all the hopes of the Bruce line – from his father and grandfather back to his ancestors of the royal house of Canmore – settling on his shoulders. As the eldest son, he had known this time would come; had been in training for it since he was a boy, but he hadn’t expected to assume the office of earl until his father’s death. Now it was before him he faltered, reluctant to reach out and grasp the burden, knowing the weight of it would crush the last freedom of his youth. ‘Am I ready?’ he wondered out loud.