by Young, Robyn
Humphrey cut in. ‘My lords, the hour grows late. I believe we can achieve nothing more today. I suggest we retire.’
After a pause, Piers sheathed his dagger with a stab, his gaze still on Thomas. Turning, he swept out of the chamber, gesturing sharply at those of his followers who had accompanied him to the council.
Humphrey was disappointed to see his nephew, Henry, was one of the young knights who followed the Gascon automatically. As the rest of the council broke up, the barons murmuring among themselves, Humphrey headed out of the hall, seeking fresher air.
The perishing afternoon revived him. The Thames, swollen by January’s storms, had broken its banks and the waters were lapping over the wharf, pooling outside Westminster Hall. A group of men worked in a line, hefting sacks of sand off a cart and piling them up along the river’s edge. Humphrey watched them, thinking the flood would not be so easily held back.
‘Humphrey.’
He turned to see Thomas of Lancaster crossing the damp cobbles towards him, tightening his cloak against the chill.
‘We cannot let that arrogant son of a bitch treat us this way,’ Thomas spat. ‘I swear to God, I’ll . . .’ He trailed off, his jaw pulsing.
Humphrey gripped Thomas’s shoulder, forcing the angry young man to meet his gaze. ‘Our king returns in a fortnight. We can discuss plans for Scotland then. In the meantime, let us prepare for the coronation. When that is done there will be fewer things to distract Edward.’
Thomas shook his head, unwilling to be placated. ‘I fear my cousin will always be distracted with that degenerate son of a whore filling his ear with poison.’
‘It is possible, now both are married, that their wives will help to temper their passions.’
‘Wives?’ scoffed Thomas. ‘My cousin’s marriage was arranged by his father purely for political gain – Edward never wanted it for himself. And Piers and Margaret de Clare? The purpose of that wedding was merely to increase the bastard’s power at court and put paid to the gossipmongers.’ Thomas’s tone was grim. ‘Make no mistake, Humphrey, these women are no more than silks for our king and his lover to cloak their unholy liaisons in. Their passions must be tempered by other means.’
Pleshey Castle, England, 1308 AD
Thomas’s words of warning stayed with Humphrey all through the next day as he travelled to Essex to prepare his household for the king’s coronation. By the time he rode in through the gates of Pleshey Castle in the evening gloom, a heavy sense of foreboding had risen to shadow him.
His steward, Ranulf, met him outside the stables as the earl dismounted with his men beneath the motte. The tower on top of the high mound loomed above the buildings of the bailey, its whitewashed walls seeming to glow faintly against the gathering dark.
‘Welcome, Sir Humphrey.’
‘Good evening, Ranulf. You received my message?’
‘Yes, my lord. The arrangements have all been made. Your retainers have been informed of when and where to assemble, and your tailors have almost completed the robes.’
Humphrey nodded tightly. The king had insisted that not only must all of London be decked out in finery, but his vassals, too, should be garbed to suit the occasion of his coronation in cloaks of gold samite. Humphrey had borne the cost of fitting himself and his knights with new robes, but it was a reluctant hand he had put in his purse to do so. At a time when England was still suffering the aftermath of the long war with Scotland, poverty and disorder rife throughout the realm, it felt like an unnecessary expense.
‘Have food brought to my chambers, Ranulf. I’ll eat alone tonight.’ As Humphrey started towards his lodgings his steward called after him.
‘Sir, the lady has been asking when you might return. She has been rather – insistent.’
Humphrey looked back at Ranulf. He paused. ‘I’ll see her now.’
‘My lord, I am sure it can wait until . . .’
But Humphrey was already heading for the guest quarters, a timber-framed building that overlooked the kitchen gardens. Nodding to a maid in the passage, who greeted him courteously, he approached the door at the end. After knocking, he slid back the bolt.
Elizabeth Bruce looked up in surprise as he entered. The queen was sitting reading at a table by the fire, its rosy flush painting her cheeks. The remains of a meal smeared a platter beside her. She looked healthier than she had when he first brought her to his manor last summer. Her face was fuller and the shadows were gone from her eyes.
‘Sir Humphrey.’
The brightness of her smile gave him a pang of sorrow. Bess used to greet him with the same look of pleased relief whenever he returned home from a campaign. It was one of the things he had looked forward to, riding back to her. He greeted Elizabeth with a nod, closing the door behind him. ‘My lady.’
Elizabeth had put down her book the moment he entered, but as she went to rise, he gestured for her to stay seated. He picked up a stool from beside the canopied bed and set it down in front of her.
‘Is there news from Sixhills?’ Elizabeth asked, before he had even sat.
‘Marjorie is fine,’ he assured her. ‘And your nephew is doing well.’
Elizabeth smiled again, but sadly now. ‘It is a shame Donald cannot meet his half-brother.’
Humphrey frowned, irritated. Elizabeth had asked before if he would petition King Edward to allow young Donald of Mar to live in the nunnery with Christian Bruce and her new child – Christopher Seton’s son. She had also pleaded for him to seek the release of Mary Bruce and Isabel Comyn from their cages. ‘Earl Donald will remain in London as the king’s ward, my lady,’ he said firmly. ‘As I have told you.’
She dropped her gaze with a brief nod.
Humphrey kept his eyes on her. After a moment, he laced his gloved fingers on the table and leaned forward. ‘Did Robert ever speak to you about his intentions for his kingdom after his coronation?’
Elizabeth looked up, her expression shifting, becoming guarded. ‘His intentions?’
‘His plans. He knew his place on the throne wouldn’t be secure until he overpowered the Scots who opposed him and defeated us.’
‘Any plans my husband made ended at Methven Wood. I think you know that.’
‘But if they hadn’t – if his army hadn’t been routed then – what would he have done? Would he have attacked England?’
Elizabeth sat back, brushing her fingers over the cover of the book she had been reading.
‘You ask if Robert told me what he intended for the future of his kingdom?’ She shook her head. ‘He rarely told me what he was planning from one day to the next.’
Humphrey studied her, the hearth fire warm on the back of his neck. Elizabeth didn’t meet his stare, but he saw only ghosts of regret in her downcast eyes, no sign of a lie. He thought of his meeting with Robert in the ruins of the chapel and the pact they had made: the safety of his wife and daughter in return for his silence on Edward’s sins. But that was as far as their agreement had stretched – no peace between their kingdoms had been agreed.
At the time, Humphrey had discerned Robert’s desire to return to his throne, although no sense the man would seek retribution against the English for the executions and incarceration of his family. But, judging by the desperate reports coming from across the border, he was systematically eradicating his enemies in the north. If Robert defeated the Comyns would he then turn his attention south, as Aymer believed he would? Would he follow in the bloody footsteps of William Wallace?
‘The maids tell me the whole of London is preparing for King Edward’s coronation,’ Elizabeth said tentatively into his silence. ‘I imagine there is great excitement at court?’
Humphrey didn’t answer. His mind clouded with thoughts of the growing dissatisfaction among the barons. Their new king’s reign had barely begun and already the court was divided. He flattened his palm on the surface of the table. Things would have to change when Edward returned from France. As earls it was their duty to ensure the safety of the king
dom. If that meant saving the king from himself, so be it. These days, he was not so awed by royal majesty. Edward Longshank’s confession had seen to that. And what of Robert, should he turn his eye to England’s borders? Humphrey looked at Elizabeth, who was staring at him, her eyes full of question. After a moment, he rose, unsmiling.
Elizabeth’s brow furrowed. ‘Humphrey?’
Humphrey nodded to the platter. ‘I’ll have the maids clear that.’
‘Humphrey, please. Don’t go!’
He paused, his hand on the door. Looking over his shoulder he saw the sadness in Elizabeth’s face – the loneliness in her eyes. The chamber might be well-appointed, but it was still a prison. Steeling himself to pity, he headed out, closing the door and snapping the bolt in place. He was done being a pawn in other men’s games. Elizabeth was an asset, a bargaining tool – nothing more. He would use her if he had to, for the sake of his kingdom.
Dundarg Castle, Scotland, 1308 AD
The flames surged into the sky, turning night to day. Their radiance was mirrored on the waters below the cliff-top castle. With a roar of timbers a section of the roof collapsed inward, sparks billowing. A cheer rose from the men around the castle’s base, some of whom began to move back from the intensity of the heat. Outbuildings and barns, which they had set their torches to, were starting to smoulder, flames sparking to life and chasing one another up trailing thatch and through sheaves of straw.
From the saddle of his horse, Robert watched Dundarg burn, his eyes reflecting the flames. Smoke clouded the air. Its acrid odour had seeped into his clothes and hair after weeks of similar destruction. Sometimes at night – still feverish even though the worst of the sickness that nearly claimed his life had passed – he would wake with a start, the smell of burning thick in his throat. Looking east along the road they had travelled that day, Robert could see an orange pulse of fire from the mill they had put to the torch. All across Buchan and Badenoch, manors and castles, farms and stores had been set ablaze, leaving a landscape littered with charred ruins and blackened expanses of crops, the earth itself scorched of life.
After his army routed the forces of the Black Comyn on the plain at Slioch, Robert had begun a slow, painful recovery. Still weak, he had relied on his brother to take command of the men. Balvenie, one of Comyn’s castles, had fallen early in the New Year. Tarradale, on the Black Isle, had followed. Men, quailing in the face of Robert’s unstoppable advance, lay down arms and submitted. Others, inspired by his might, pledged their swords and joined his fight. Meanwhile, in the west, Lachlan MacRuarie and Angus MacDonald maintained a strong presence on the waters, hemming in the Lords of Argyll.
As spring thawed the snow on the mountain passes, reports filtered up from the south, where James Stewart and James Douglas had led a force into the Forest, young Douglas intent on regaining his father’s lands from the now absent Robert Clifford. Already, their campaign had seen them take back a large swathe of the Border lands. In all these months, the English garrisons holed up in Stirling, Edinburgh, Roxburgh and Perth made no move to aid their Scottish allies. Nor was there any sign that the new King of England would come north to oppose Robert’s offensive.
At last, when the snows cleared and flowers were festooning the meadows, Robert met the Black Comyn once again, this time on the road to Inverurie. There, in a fierce and bloody battle, he defeated him. The earl fled the field with his life, but little else. Many of his knights were killed and those who survived escaped south, leaving the earldom wide open, defenceless before Robert’s forces.
There were more cheers as another section of Dundarg Castle collapsed and the barns began to blaze. Robert didn’t join in. He took no pleasure in this. He’d thought he would have done, but these past months, lying on his litter with endless hours to think, he had come to realise it wasn’t vengeance that now spurred him to rain down such destruction, but need. Pure, bitter need.
His grandfather had once warned him that the hatred between their family and the Comyns had the power to rip the kingdom apart. The old lord had been right. Robert hadn’t known it at the time, but the dagger he brandished in the church of the Greyfriars had wounded him just as it had John Comyn, that dark deed setting in motion the events that followed, which had seen him stripped of everything. He had lost family and friends, his authority and dignity, and with his excommunication his soul remained at risk of eternal damnation. It had wounded their realm too. These lands were soaked in the blood of too many of Scotland’s sons.
‘Another one falls!’
At the harsh call, Robert saw Edward riding up the slope towards him. Others followed, rejoining the king and the rest of the army, voices lifting above the roar of the flames.
‘Anything of value?’ Robert asked, as his brother pulled his horse to a halt.
‘The place was bare. They must have known we were coming.’ Edward tossed the wine skin he was holding to Neil Campbell, who caught it deftly. ‘I doubt we’ll find much plunder anywhere now. Comyn is long gone, as are his people. It is time we moved on, brother. There are other targets to strike at.’
Robert knew Edward meant John MacDougall and Dungal MacDouall, the latter still at large after the skirmish at Glen Trool. His brother had become increasingly impatient to hunt down the man responsible for the capture of Thomas and Alexander, and the beheading of their foster-father. Cormac had strongly supported him in this. But Robert wanted to finish what he had started here. He never wanted to have to do this again.
‘I’ll move on when I’m done.’
Edward met his stare, his eyes narrowing. ‘This war isn’t over, brother,’ he murmured. ‘Not by a long way.’
‘I am well aware of that.’
Drawing on the reins of the palfrey, taken from Balvenie’s stables, Robert rode from the burning castle, followed by his men. As he went, he felt his brother’s gaze on his back.
Chapter 36
Cheapside, England, 1308 AD
It was the thud of drums that roused him from his delirium. Alexander Seton stirred to life, groggy and confused, his ale-addled dreams slow to fade as the world around him came into focus. The stink was the first thing to hit him – rancid vegetables and putrefied meat, night soil, sour vomit and dog faeces. He struggled to sit, swallowing back a fierce urge to retch. His movement startled several rats that had been burrowing in a refuse pile next to him, sending them scuttling behind a row of barrels stacked up outside a battered wooden door. Staring at the door, Alexander had a vague memory of being shoved out of it at some point during the night. Touching his jaw through the worn fingers of his gloves, it felt tender, bruised. There had been another fight.
His hand went quickly to his purse, tied to his belt beside his dirk. He let out a slow breath, feeling the weight of the coins inside, won in a cockfight yesterday. Whomever he’d fought with in the inn it had not been for money. Sitting upright, he pushed his hair out of his face and leaned against the damp stone wall, his breath fogging the air. His filthy cloak, trimmed with fur, and the faint warmth from the decomposing midden heap had saved him from freezing to death, but now he was awake the February chill was seeping into his skin. Far above him between the buildings, the upper storeys of which pressed in close on one another, was a slit of pristine blue sky. It seemed a long way away. The drumming was louder now, vying with the hollow clop of hooves on wet cobbles.
His head throbbing, Alexander stumbled down the alley, using the wall for purchase, his feet slipping in icy patches of slime. As he neared the mouth, he had to shield his eyes from the glare. Beyond the dim passage, Cheapside lay in full morning sun. Light gleamed in puddles on the wide street, flashed in the leaded windows of stores and glinted in the glass and silverware of the traders, who had set up their stalls outside. Gold flags had been strung in criss-crossing lines between the buildings, fluttering in the brisk air.
The decorations had been put up all over London for the coronation of the king, who had returned from France five days ago, making a proces
sion through the city with his French bride. Alexander, caught unexpectedly in the press of crowds, had been forced to wait and watch while Edward and his retinue passed. It had been a grand display, the king surrounded by knights in brocaded mantles, wearing helms ornamented with sprays of peacock feathers, or elaborate crests of wings and horns. The bridles of their horses had been strung with so many bells that the jingle could be heard even over the cheers of the crowd, all eager to catch a glimpse of their new queen, riding behind the king, accompanied by a host of dignitaries and ladies-in-waiting. Alexander hadn’t waited to see her, but at a gap in the mob had slipped away down a side street. He had drunk himself into a daze that day, unable to get the images out of his mind, his bitterness curdling in him.
Below the flags adorning Cheapside’s thoroughfare, men and women thronged the street, inspecting the stalls and bartering with traders. Some had congregated outside an inn, drinking from tankards and tucking into hot pies. Alexander’s stomach, empty and bloated from last night’s ale, ached at the sight. As the clamour of drums and hooves drew closer, people began to move out of the way. Following their gaze, Alexander saw a company riding down the street.
There were a dozen men on horseback, with four drummers on foot leading them. The riders wore cloaks of gold samite over their surcoats. Spurs and pommels of swords winked in the sunlight. A gaggle of children ran alongside. As Alexander watched, one of the men at the front reached into a purse and brought out a fistful of coins, which he scattered before the children, grinning as they shrieked and dived for them. Alexander’s eyes remained fixed on the device on the knight’s surcoat, revealed by the sweep of his arm. The blue silk was slashed with a white band, between which were six gold lions. Alexander’s gaze darted across the others. There he was, riding in the midst of his men – Humphrey de Bohun.