Kingdom

by Young, Robyn

  ‘Ewen’s back, sir.’

  At Tom’s voice, Alexander drew his gaze from the wagon to see one of his knights riding into the square.

  ‘It is as you thought,’ Ewen said as he reached them. He swung down from the saddle. ‘Valence is going after King Robert. He’s already headed for Aberdeen.’

  Alexander had expected as much, but he had hoped Valence would have left a commander in Perth in his stead – someone with the authority he needed. None of the guards he had seen at the gates or over by the stone halls wore the colours of Pembroke. ‘Did you discover who has been left in charge of the town?’

  ‘Those I spoke to weren’t very forthcoming. Too scared for the most part. But I was told prisoners taken from Methven Wood are being held there.’ Ewen nodded to the hall.

  Alexander wondered if the wagon was being readied to cart prisoners. He sucked the remnants of bread from his teeth. Were friends and allies locked up in that building? James Stewart perhaps, or Malcolm of Lennox? The shadow of guilt that had trailed him from Aberdeen darkened, but he forced it away. ‘We’ll wait and see what Will finds out.’

  Alexander lapsed into silence. His manor at Seton was scarcely more than a day’s ride – frustratingly close. His lands in East Lothian had been forfeited to the English crown for his role in the rebellion, but King Edward was a shrewd man and Alexander was certain the king would look beyond his crimes to see what a blow his desertion would strike at Robert. He couldn’t let guilt overrule reason. All ten years of loyalty had brought him was bad fortune. The attack outside these walls at the hands of Valence and their own countrymen – which he had warned Robert about and yet again been ignored – had been the last nail in the coffin of his faith. While he trusted Robert would deliver them from Edward’s tyranny he had fought with every sinew for the man and his cause. But he hadn’t believed in a long time. Now, the English had raised the dragon and Alexander refused to relinquish the last things he had left – his life and his freedom – to fight for a doomed king whose own subjects were turning against him.

  He thought of Christopher, standing in the rain in the courtyard of Aberdeen Castle. Alexander had watched his cousin from the shadows of the stables, knowing the young man was searching for him. Compassion had urged him to call out, but sense had kept him silent. Christopher was as a brother to him, but although he was English, born and bred, Robert was his true master and he would follow his king down into hell if ordered. There would have been no persuading him otherwise. Alexander could only hope, by submitting to Edward, that he would be able to secure his cousin’s safety. In time, God willing, he would be reinstated as Lord of Seton, Christopher would be free of Robert’s influence and they would no longer be outlaws on the run, living hand to mouth. Life as a nobleman under an English king had to be better than no life at all.

  ‘Sir.’

  Alexander was roused from his thoughts by Ewen, whose eyes were on the main street. A company of men was advancing on the market square, some riding, others marching alongside. Alexander’s eyes narrowed on the white lions emblazoned on blue shields and surcoats. He cursed. Valence had left someone in charge, just not someone he wanted to parley with.

  At the head of the company rode Dungal MacDouall, former captain of the army of Galloway, now leader of the Disinherited: men whose lands had been divided among the barons of England when John Balliol was exiled in France. MacDouall held the reins of his horse one-handed, sitting back against the cantle. The Galloway men were laughing and calling to one another, a few banging on their shields with their swords. It was the entry of men who had just won a victory.

  ‘Wait here,’ Alexander told Ewen and Tom.

  He slipped into the market crowds, keeping MacDouall in his sights. The captain was headed for the stone hall with the wagon outside. Grooms were still moving around it, adjusting straps on the harnessed horses. As MacDouall reached the hall, a man emerged. Squeezing past two portly women haggling with the butcher, Alexander saw this man was wearing a blue and white striped surcoat, adorned with red birds. Pembroke’s colours. His anticipation sharpened. Would this man have the authority to deliver his surrender to King Edward?

  Moving closer, Alexander pulled up his hood, the better to conceal himself. He had known Dungal MacDouall for years and had fought on the same side as him for most of them, but the captain had been John Comyn’s right-hand man. Alexander had been at Dumfries and it was his cousin’s sword that had spilled blood that night, changing for ever the fortunes of MacDouall and his men, who had found a new master in Comyn. The Seton name was black among this company.

  ‘Captain,’ greeted the Englishman, as MacDouall swung down from the saddle. ‘I’ve prepared the prisoner’s transport, as your man requested.’

  ‘Good.’ MacDouall’s voice came harsh over the low hum of voices in the market place.‘He’ll have a friend to keep him company on the journey.’

  Following the captain’s gaze, Alexander saw a figure in the midst of the Galloway men, hands bound with ropes to the pommel of his horse, which was being led by one of MacDouall’s knights. The recognition was a shock. The man was William Lamberton, the Bishop of St Andrews. The bishop sat erect, head held high, despite the ignoble position he was in.

  ‘We caught his grace outside his diocese,’ said MacDouall. ‘He was stockpiling meat and grain for Bruce. We took what we could and burned the rest.’

  ‘King Edward will be most pleased with this bounty,’ assured the Englishman, appraising the bishop as though he were a prize stag.

  Lamberton’s cloak was dust-stained and his tonsured head had been burned by the sun. There was a bruise darkening to purple on the side of his face. But his eyes, one blue the other pearl white, remained unwavering as he met the gaze of his captors.

  Watching from the cover of the market crowds as the bishop was hauled from the saddle, Alexander felt a rush of shame. This proud, formidable man, humbled and bound, was a friend of his. He had shared bread and conversation with Lamberton around many campfires, enjoying his passionate, plain-spoken company. His resolve faltered. Did he want to surrender himself to men who would treat one of the highest-ranking clergymen in the realm like a common outlaw?

  ‘I will be most pleased to serve this bounty to the king,’ replied MacDouall, ‘but first I have another errand. While pursuing our enemy near St Andrews I received word that Sir John has returned from Argyll. I must meet him at his wife’s manor.’

  Alexander listened intently. The last they knew, the Black Comyn had been in the west raising the lords of Argyll against Robert in retaliation for the murder of their kinsman.

  The Englishman’s interest also seemed piqued. ‘Do you have word of how many men the MacDougalls have raised for our cause?’

  ‘The message just said to join him, with all speed, at Leuchars. If I leave now, I’ll be there by nightfall.’

  ‘And the prisoners?’

  ‘As instructed, I’ll take them south to King Edward at Durham. Do not fear. Lord Edward will have his pound of flesh.’

  ‘That’s him!’

  Alexander jerked round at the shout. The crowd behind him had parted and he saw three men standing there. One was the pimple-faced youth he had threatened at the baker’s stall. The other two looked enough like him, with their sallow complexions and pockmarked faces, to be related, only older, and brawnier. One had a stained apron and was wielding a cleaver.

  Alexander held up his hands as they advanced. ‘I meant no harm,’ he said, acutely aware of MacDouall, not more than twenty yards away.

  The man with the cleaver glanced over Alexander’s shoulder, checking the attention of the guards outside the hall. His eyes flicked back, narrowing with enmity. ‘You threatened my boy?’

  Before he could answer, Alexander caught a rush of motion behind the man. He went to shout, but Will, who had appeared from nowhere, barrelled into the man, sending him crashing to the ground. A young girl standing nearby screamed, the shrill sound piercing the subdued marke
t. Will was on top of the brawny man, trying to wrest the cleaver from his hand. Ewen and Tom were shoving their way through the press as the other man rushed to the aid of his struggling companion. Alexander stormed into the skirmish, shouting at his men to get the hell out. His warning came too late. Within moments, the place was swarming with armed men from the hall.

  Alexander was knocked violently as people scattered in all directions. Someone crashed into a potter’s stall, sending pots smashing to the ground. Alexander felt a fist grab the back of his cloak. He reacted quickly, bringing his elbow crashing back. As it connected with something soft, he heard a grunt of pain and the hold on his cloak disappeared. Ahead, between the fleeing market-goers, he glimpsed Will being hauled off his victim by two men with the white lion of Galloway on their surcoats. The pimple-faced youth had vanished. Ewen had drawn his sword and was backing away from two guards, Tom at his side.

  A blow landed heavily on the back of Alexander’s head. He stumbled to his knees with the impact, pain blurring his vision. He tried to push himself up, but while he was still dazed someone grasped his arm. He went for his sword, but another man grabbed at his wrist, bending it back until he yelled. Hauled to his feet, he was marched to the hall, his head still ringing. Will, Ewen and the two companions of the youth were similarly manhandled and brought before Dungal MacDouall and the English knight.

  Alexander hung his head as he approached MacDouall, whose one hand was curled around the hilt of his sword. His hood had stayed up in the skirmish and helped to hide his face.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ demanded Valence’s man, looking between the brawlers.

  ‘A misunderstanding, sir,’ said Will quickly. ‘Nothing more.’

  The Englishman frowned. ‘I’ll not put up with disturbers of the king’s peace. You should know this by now. Throw them in the cellar with the others,’ he told his guards brusquely. ‘I’ll decide how to punish them later.’

  Alexander kept his head lowered as the men holding him began to usher him towards the building into which Lamberton had been taken.

  ‘Wait!’ MacDouall’s voice rang out.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Alexander watched him cross to Will.

  MacDouall stared at the knight, eyes sharp with question. ‘Who are you? Why do I know your face?’ When Will didn’t answer, MacDouall grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled back his head, inspecting him intently. After a moment, recognition dawned on his face. He let go of Will and turned.

  Alexander felt MacDouall’s gaze fall on him as a blow. He tried to twist away, but MacDouall strode over and ripped back his hood.

  ‘Seton!’

  There was a scatter of exclamations from the Galloway men in earshot.

  MacDouall’s triumph faded fast. He scanned the now deserted market square, then gestured to the Englishman. ‘Alert your guards. There could be more.’ He turned his attention back to Alexander. ‘Did Bruce send you? Are you here to rescue his men?’

  ‘No,’ murmured Alexander. ‘I came alone.’

  ‘One of Bruce’s commanders – come alone into the lion’s den? Tell me the truth, Seton, or I’ll rip it from you.’

  ‘It is the truth. I am no longer Bruce’s man.’ Alexander looked over at the English knight. ‘I came to surrender to King Edward.’

  The knight took a step forward at this, but MacDouall turned on him. ‘This man is one of John Comyn’s murderers. I request the right to question him on behalf of the Comyn family.’

  ‘Sir Aymer will want to interrogate the murderer of his brother-in-law.’

  ‘Sir Aymer is occupied hunting down Bruce. Seton may have vital information on our enemy’s plans – information that should be extracted as soon as possible. Let me take him with the other prisoners. My master will be grateful for the opportunity to question him, personally.’

  Chapter 7

  St Fillan’s Shrine, Scotland, 1306 AD

  Robert watched the river foam past, its rush loud in his ears. Rains from the summer storms that had drenched his company on their slow progress west from Aberdeen had made their own way to this point, tumbling down out of the mountains of Drumalban by tracks and tributaries to meet in the white rapids of the Fillan. A short distance upriver they converged in the icy depths of St Fillan’s Pool, the waters of which were said to cure sickness of the mind and the soul.

  ‘It is a wild beauty, is it not, my lord?’

  Robert turned. Abbot Maurice was approaching, his black habit brushing the tall grasses. He shielded his eyes from the afternoon sun as he came, smiling in question. Behind him, the roof of St Fillan’s Chapel rose from a copse of birch trees. Above the foaming water, Robert caught music and laughter coming from beyond the trees. As the abbot came to stand beside him, he looked back across the river where waterlogged meadows, iridescent in the sunlight, ascended into hills carpeted with heather. Beyond, higher peaks climbed to the sky, their bare flanks darkened by the shadows of scudding clouds. The shrine of St Fillan’s, which lay in a remote valley, was imprisoned by mountains on virtually all sides.

  ‘Do you know the legends of our blessed saint?’

  Robert glanced at the abbot. The old man was still smiling, but Robert sensed something else in his tone now. ‘My family is more familiar with the history of St Malachy of Armagh.’

  Abbot Maurice nodded sagely. ‘Ah, yes. The curse.’

  Robert thought of his grandfather’s obsession with atoning for the sins of their ancestor, cursed down the generations by the wrathful Irish saint. He wondered if Thomas and Alexander had now returned the Staff of Malachy, taken in his flight from Westminster Abbey, to its rightful keepers – the monks of Bangor Abbey.

  ‘When St Fillan first came to this valley it was haunted by savage creatures. Before he could build his place of worship he had to confront these beasts. First, he drove off a vicious boar. Next, he tamed a wolf, rendering the ferocious animal so obedient he was able to lash it to a cart to carry stones for his chapel. For hundreds of years his sanctuary has provided solace for pilgrims and his pool has cured the sick. It is a shame only a ruin now stands to mark such a legacy.’

  Robert’s eyes narrowed at the none-too-subtle intimation, but he owed the abbot no less than a donation. Descending through the rain-swept mountains his company of five hundred men, weighed down by baggage and slowed by the women and children, had found welcome shelter in the Abbey of Inchaffray. Abbot Maurice, on learning of Robert’s intention to head west, had offered to escort him by the old pilgrim road to St Fillan’s, beyond which he could easily follow routes to the sea. ‘You have my word, when my reign is secured St Fillan will have a shrine worthy of his deeds.’

  Abbot Maurice inclined his head. ‘Blessings upon you, my lord.’ He paused, his gaze lingering on Robert. ‘This valley has long been a place of healing. Not just of the body, but of the soul. Absolution can be found here, by those who seek it.’

  Robert smiled coolly. ‘I thank you, Abbot, for officiating over the marriage of my sister. I should join in the celebrations while they last.’ He made his way back towards the copse of trees, his smile vanishing.

  The sounds of merriment grew louder as he approached the camp, spread out across a meadow by St Fillan’s shrine. The small, ramshackle chapel, besieged by ivy and creeping moss, had been festooned with wildflowers for the wedding of his sister and Christopher Seton. Despite the bright sprays of colour, gathered by the children who had been set the task to keep them occupied while the army set up camp, the chapel’s musty interior remained full of gloom. Staring into its cobwebbed darkness, Robert felt a chill. He had barely set foot inside a church since Greyfriars. The abbot wasn’t the only one to have offered him absolution. Four months ago, his brother Alexander had urged him to give his confession. In response, Robert had sent him to Antrim. He had been defiant that the attack on John Comyn had not been an act of murder, but of self-defence. Though this wasn’t an outright lie, the truth was more complicated.

  It was Jame
s Stewart who first advised him to seek the endorsement of John Comyn in his bid to claim the throne. Despite his misgivings, he had followed the steward’s counsel, but unbeknown to them, Comyn had his own eyes fixed on the crown and in Robert’s offer of an alliance against the English had seen his chance to take it. Orchestrating the capture of William Wallace, Comyn had documents planted on the rebel leader that exposed Robert’s plan to take the throne in defiance of his pledge of loyalty to Edward. The king, discovering the conspiracy after Wallace’s execution, ordered his arrest and so Robert had fled, taking the Staff of Malachy and the precious box that contained the king’s dark secret with him.

  That night in the church of the Greyfriars, Comyn looked as shocked as if he’d seen a ghost when Robert stepped out of the shadows. The son of a bitch had expected him to be dead, or at least rotting in the Tower. They fought and, yes, he defended himself, but although he might fool those around him, Robert could not fool himself. He had gone to that church with murder in mind, the tortured screams of William Wallace, sacrificed on the altar of Comyn’s ambition, still ringing in his ears. He could say it was justice for the rebel leader, or that it was fate; that his and Comyn’s path had been set years before, furrowed by the hatred of their fathers and grandfathers, and half a century of bad blood had, that night, been fulfilled in them. But if he was to be truly absolved he would first have to confess that not only had he wanted to kill Comyn, but that he had taken pleasure in it.

  Robert wondered if events since – his humiliating defeat at the hands of Valence, the men of Galloway joining forces with the English, the loss of so many friends and followers – were not caused by errors of judgement, but rather by his own sin. He imagined it as a cloud, following him wherever he went, God’s displeasure hanging over him like a thunderhead.