by Young, Robyn
‘Thomas, I—’
‘I brought my father’s men to fight for you at Methven – pledged myself to you. You left me there!’ cried Thomas. ‘I saw you ride right past me!’ He clutched his side tighter, gasping with pain. ‘Now, here you are in hiding, while your men fight your battle for you!’
Robert felt shame run hot through him as his sins and his secret fears poured from the mouth of his own nephew; damning him here on this hillside in front of his watching men. He thought of David of Atholl and all who had joined the ranks of his enemies. He thought of those who had died for him and those he had left behind. How many of them now cursed him from their prisons? For a moment, he quailed in the face of his own towering guilt, then he caught sight of Cormac, whose face still bore the scars of the assault in Stranraer.
‘Did the king’s men tell you what they did to my brothers?’ he asked Thomas, his voice low. ‘What they did to my wife and to your mother? Did they tell you they burned Turnberry to ash and put women and girls to the sword? That they imprisoned Robert Wishart and William Lamberton, men of the cloth, in irons?’ His voice rose, hoarse with emotion. ‘Did they tell you they hanged John of Atholl and strung up Niall, your uncle, only to cut him down alive so the mob could enjoy his terror as they put his neck on the block? Or how my foster-father knelt in mercy before Dungal MacDouall, who took his life in far colder blood than I took Comyn’s? Did the English tell you that their king put my daughter in a cage like an animal? Answer me, damn you! Did they tell you this?’
Thomas averted his eyes from Robert’s wrath. He bowed his head.
Robert stared down on him for a moment longer. ‘Keep him under guard.’ Turning, he strode back up the hill towards his banner, his men parting before him. ‘Get ready. All of you. We march north.’
Ayr, Scotland, 1307 AD
Humphrey stood still, feeling the cold bite of the dagger against his neck. His instinct, after the shock had faded, was to fight, but whoever had hold of him was strong – he could feel that in the tautness of the arm around his chest. As lightning flared again, he caught sight of a reflection in the rain-stained window. He saw himself and, over his shoulder, a man in a hooded cloak, with a hard, desperate face. It was Alexander Seton. Humphrey had last seen the lord from East Lothian when Prince Edward’s men took him from the battlefield in Lorn. ‘What do you want with me, Alexander?’
The lord stiffened at the sound of his name, but when he spoke his voice was harsh, commanding. ‘I know where Robert Bruce is.’
‘Perhaps you should tell Sir Aymer. He is the one who had you released for this purpose.’ Humphrey kept his voice calm, but his heart pulsed fiercely at the news. He wondered how Alexander had got in here, but the hammering outside reminded him the barracks were in chaos. It wasn’t hard to imagine how someone might steal in unnoticed and get a servant to reveal where his lodgings were.
‘I do not trust Aymer.’
‘Very well. Tell me.’
‘I will, when my cousin is released.’
At this, Humphrey realised Alexander didn’t yet know about Christopher’s execution. Did that mean Robert had no idea what had happened to his family – that King Edward’s intention for him to suffer was as yet unfulfilled? ‘That will take some time,’ he began slowly. ‘How will I know Robert won’t have moved on before your cousin is set free?’
In the window’s reflection, Alexander’s eyes narrowed. ‘I know where his base is – where he will retreat to when he leaves the mainland. Where his fleet is harboured. This is what I will tell you in return for my cousin’s freedom.’
Humphrey’s mind raced. So Robert was on the mainland now? ‘How do you know this?’
‘Because he sent me from there with a message.’
Humphrey wondered queasily whether this message might now be delivered by the blade at his throat.
‘Robert has Henry Percy,’ Alexander continued. ‘He wanted me to tell you he is willing to exchange him for his wife, daughter and sisters. But I’ve not come here for that. All I want is my cousin.’
‘I understand. As a sign of good faith, tell me where Robert is now.’
Alexander paused. ‘Somewhere on the west coast. He was planning an attack when I left, but I was only with him for one night – not long enough to hear the details.’
Humphrey’s eyes alighted on the book on the floor at his feet where he’d dropped it. ‘Have you heard tell of a prophecy – a vision of Merlin – in which the Welsh and Irish will rise with the Scots against us?’
Alexander didn’t speak.
Humphrey could feel the man’s heart beating fast against his back. ‘Tell me,’ he urged. ‘And I’ll give you what you want.’
‘Yes,’ said Alexander. ‘I heard it from Robert himself. The night before I left he told his men it was the prophecy taken from Edward. He said the king kept it locked away because he didn’t want anyone to know it predicted his death and that with that event the Britons would reclaim their lands. He is planning to send out messengers, proclaiming this to the Welsh and the Irish.’
Humphrey caught the cynicism in Alexander’s tone. ‘You do not believe it?’
‘I remember what Robert said when he left Edward’s service. He told those of us closest to him that the box he took from Westminster was empty – that there was no prophecy. Whatever he says now is for the benefit of his new followers. All those fools who have no idea he will lead them down into hell.’
Alexander’s words ricocheted in Humphrey. A chill ran through him. He was brought back to focus by the sting of the blade.
‘I’ve told you more than enough to prove myself. Now it is your turn. I want Christopher taken to my old estate in Seton. There’s a chapel in the grounds where you will leave him in one week’s time. You can send one of your men with him, but only one. When I see my cousin is unharmed I’ll tell your man where Bruce is based.’
Thoughts swarmed in Humphrey’s mind: he thought of the two prisoners, right now being prepared for interrogation, and of Aymer and Ralph, the king’s cousin and his son-in-law, both steadfastly loyal without question. Maybe the prisoners would give up Robert’s base and maybe they wouldn’t, but, either way, Humphrey knew he wanted more than just a location now. He wanted the truth. ‘I want you to play along with Bruce. Tell him I’ve agreed a parley to discuss an exchange of prisoners, to which he will bring Henry Percy. Tell him I—’
‘You’re not in a position to make demands,’ growled Alexander. Grabbing Humphrey’s hair, he pulled his head back, scoring his neck with the dagger until blood trickled. ‘Don’t think for a moment I’ll not kill you and take my offer to another!’
There was a knock at the door. Alexander was distracted, only briefly, but it was all Humphrey needed. Grabbing the man’s arm, he forced it from his throat, twisting Alexander’s wrist until the man hissed and dropped the dagger. As the blade clattered to the floor, Humphrey kneed him in the stomach. Alexander dropped to his knees with a winded gasp, Humphrey pinning his arm at an excruciating angle.
‘Sir Humphrey?’ came a man’s voice through the door. It was his squire, Hugh.
Grabbing the dagger from the floor, Humphrey thrust it at Alexander’s throat. ‘Agree to my offer,’ he murmured, ‘and you’ll get what you want. Refuse and after I’ve killed you I swear, by God, I’ll go straight to Berwick and take bloody retribution on your cousin.’
‘Sir? Are you all right in there?’
Alexander looked up at Humphrey, his dark eyes filling with pain and desperation. He nodded once.
‘I am fine, Hugh,’ called Humphrey.
Chapter 28
Loudoun Hill, Scotland, 1307 AD
From Glen Trool they moved north by way of lonely, windswept moors, following the winding courses of stony rivers, hidden by hills. All around them the land unfurled from the clutches of bitter winter, warmth burgeoning in the air and life springing in the earth, offering up new bounties in the woods and the fields. Around campfires at night, feasting on m
eat for the first time in weeks, the men relived their ambush of the English, buoyed up by their remarkable victory. Many spoke of Merlin’s vision, believing their triumph against such overwhelming odds was proof of its veracity. Robert and those closest to him, who knew the truth of the prophecy and its origin, did not dissuade them from such speculation.
On the fringes of Carrick, deep in the forest beyond the Bruce castle at Loch Doon, held by the English, they camped for twelve nights while Robert sent messengers into his earldom to the places where those tasked with collecting the rents were due to gather and wait for word. They returned to him gradually, hauling handcarts filled with sacks of money and supplies or leading pack-horses weighed down with coins from tenants eager to hear word of their long-vanished lord. Some were even accompanied by young squires from the halls of Robert’s vassals, keen to join the king’s war-band, along with farmers, shepherds, drovers and fishermen. But not all that came out of Carrick was welcome.
Along with news of the loss of two of his men, caught by enemy soldiers near Turnberry, were reports of doors shut in the faces of the rent collectors and of widespread fear and suspicion among his tenantry. Many of those who had since returned to homes and settlements after fleeing the devastation caused by Prince Edward the year before were too scared of angering their English overlords to aid him. Others were deeply resentful of their absentee earl, who had left them without defence or aid, at the mercy of the invaders. This news, although not wholly unexpected, weighed heavily on Robert, whose mind lingered on Thomas Randolph’s impassioned outburst on the slopes of Glen Trool. Although his nephew was misguided and hadn’t been told all the facts by his gaolers, Robert knew the sentiment of his argument was based on an unpalatable truth. If it wasn’t then so many of his countrymen – not just kinsmen of Comyn, but his own vassals and those, like David of Atholl, whom he had counted as friends – would not have turned against him.
A year ago, outside the walls of Perth, he had known he needed a victory over the English in order to inspire more men to join him and to help erase the stain on his reputation, tarnished by John Comyn’s blood. He had failed, utterly, and all the months since, on the run, losing more followers, had only cemented that defeat and his failure as king and guardian of the people in the eyes of many of his subjects. His success in Glen Trool was a start, but a desperate ambush wasn’t enough to serve as a foundation for his return to the throne. William Wallace only earned the full respect of the nobility of Scotland when he faced the English at Stirling on an open field, and won.
And so, when the last men joined them from Carrick with tidings that Aymer de Valence had gone to fortify Ayr, Robert led his ragged army north, coming out into the open barely twenty miles from the English-held garrison town. Here, in the shadow of Loudoun Hill, he waited, knowing it would not be long before the English got word of their presence.
The enemy was first spotted, a mile or so west of Loudoun Hill, by the glints on their spear-heads. Shielding their eyes from the morning sun, the Scots watched them come from their position on a broad meadow, where three wide ditches had been cut through the grass at intervals, one after another, with the middle trench overlapping the parallel lines made by the other two. The smell of up-cast soil, warmed by the May sunshine, was rich on the air. The meadow was bordered on either side by tracts of marshland, swamped by the spring rains. At the Scots’ backs the slopes of Loudoun Hill, a great crag that thrust unexpectedly from the gentle landscape, rose steeply. A tough climb for men on foot, the cliff was impossible for horses to scale and offered a last-ditch refuge should they need it. Their supplies and the revenues from Carrick were stored on the summit under guard. It had seemed an ideal place for Robert to array his army, but for the meadow itself.
High and dry, it was perfect ground for the heavy cavalry Robert knew he would face. If his men weren’t to be ridden down where they stood, he had to modify the terrain to his advantage. During a council with his commanders five nights ago, walking the field, he decided, based on the advice of Neil Campbell, who had fought with Wallace at Stirling, on using ditches to help funnel the English cavalry into smaller, less overwhelming groups. The trenches, dug laboriously over several days, his men using tools taken from nearby farmsteads, along with sticks and their bare hands, formed barriers both for the enemy to tackle and for the Scots to fall back behind.
Now, looking at the ditches, Robert found himself thinking these three holes in the earth were perhaps all that stood between him and utter annihilation. There was no time to dwell on the wisdom of his strategy, as away along the western road the vanguard of the English came into view. The confusion of colour and metal slowly divided into horses and men, trappers and surcoats. Pennons and banners flew above the lines of cavalry and infantry. There were different arms among them, but most at the head wore the blue and white of Pembroke. They filled the road as far as Robert could see, a great snake, winding inexorably towards him. He guessed there were two, maybe three thousand.
Swinging his shield from his shoulder, Robert forced his arm through the grips on the back. Unsheathing his sword, gifted to him by the high steward, the gold pommel flashing in the sun, he walked down the slope into the ranks of his waiting army, followed by his commanders. Wide-eyed farmhands clutching spears stood alongside thick-necked galloglass wielding their axes and veteran knights, swords in their mailed fists. Robert stood in their centre, turning in a circle to address them, his voice rising as he reminded them why they had come to this field.
He spoke of their families, their wives and children, mothers and fathers. He reminded them of their homes; the lands they worked and the land they loved. He conjured the ghosts of the men who had died deaths of heroes and martyrs, fighting those who would crush them beneath the fist of conquest. Andrew Moray, William Douglas, John of Atholl, Christopher Seton, Thomas Bruce, William Wallace. He told them these men were watching from the halls of heaven, watching them here on this field; they who were the inheritors of this long and bloody war, who carried within them the torch of those who had gone before. He told them this torch was a living flame of courage and honour, and that with it they would light a holy fire all along this hillside.
When he had finished, he walked down through their lines, beating the flat of his blade on the scarred surface of his shield. His commanders went with him, doing the same, until the meadow was clashing with sound. Robert halted in the gap between the first and second ditch, his men spreading out around him. There was James Douglas, determination clear in his face, here, so close to the lands of his father. Beside him was Malcolm of Lennox, his handsome face gaunt and drawn after the hardships of the past months, but no less resolved, his men arrayed around him. There were Gilbert de la Hay and Neil Campbell, Cormac and Angus MacDonald, surrounded by the doughty men of the Isles, wielding spears and lances, taken from the English dead at Glen Trool.
Ordering his spearmen to form a line, three men deep, from the edge of the first ditch to the second, Robert moved in behind them, pulling up the ventail of the mail coif he wore beneath his helm, covering his throat and jaw in the metal mesh. He had thrown James Stewart’s cautions to the wind, along with his own fears. Thomas Randolph’s accusations had awoken something fierce within him. Whatever met him here today, whether death or glory, no one would ever call him a coward again. Beside him was his brother, Edward, blue eyes glittering with the expectation of violence. Knights from Carrick and Annandale, who had served the brothers loyally for years, crowded close. Above them all, the banner given to Robert by Christiana was a vivid sweep of yellow against the spring sky, held aloft by Nes, his face lit with pride at the honour.
As the vanguard of the English reached the lower slopes of the meadow, they fanned out. The tension among the Scots rose. A few men peeled away to relieve themselves while they still could, others flexed necks and shoulders, swung weapons to loosen muscles, or rubbed slick palms on cloaks. Insects swarmed in the air. Robert fixed on the distant banner of Aymer de Valence
and felt a line of sweat trickle down his cheek. A rabbit appeared on the meadow and sat grazing, taking no notice of the tight mass of Scots at the high end of the field, or the English forming up below. All at once a horn bellowed, shattering the still. The rabbit bolted into its burrow and a flock of birds cast from the trees on the crown of Loudoun Hill.
The cavalry came first in one long line, no breaks between, the destriers moving from steady walk to trot, then at last to ground-shuddering canter. To the Scots, they came as a great wave, rising to meet them in a storm of billowing blue and white trappers, sunlight flashing on hundreds of blades. Robert, feeling the earth quaking beneath him, roared at his men to stand their ground. Those in the front lines gripped their spears; a forest of barbs thrust outwards, butts wedged against the ground. Others, clutching swords, dirks and axes, pressed in around them. The horn sounded again from the English cavalry, this time three blasts of warning as they crested the slope and saw the ditches carving wide brown lines through the meadow ahead. The outer flanks slowed and fell in behind the middle section that now pushed forward in an arrow, aiming for the gap between the first and second trenches, where the Scots crowded, braced for impact.
The first wave of cavalry smashed into the heart of the Scottish lines amid the baying of battle cries. The collision was brutal. The front rows of Scots were forced back by the shock of it, men colliding with comrades, some staggering, others falling, but the press behind them wouldn’t let them fall far. Screams sounded as horses were impaled on the points of spears. Some riders were hurled over the heads of the first ranks of Scots and sent tumbling into the mass behind. Only their shrieks rose as they were savagely despatched by dirks and stamping feet. The English knights, riding in behind the first wave, had to pull their horses up short to avoid crashing into their comrades, who had met, in the Scots, an immovable wall.