There stood a young man of shockingly pale flaxen hair, several shades lighter than Marjorie’s, even. His eyes were such a startling blue that even at so many paces I could make out their color. He bowed his head as he looked toward the king. Robert began to rise, but Elizabeth placed a hand firmly on his forearm.
“You forget who you are now,” she said to her husband.
“I forget nothing...” he returned, looking at her long and sincerely, “least of all who I am.”
Edward extended his hand in greeting. Thomas Randolph hesitated before clasping it coolly. He made his way to the king, where he paused and looked Robert over, then bent his knee ever so slightly. He was the son of Robert’s much older half-brother, also by the name of Thomas Randolph, through Robert’s mother Marjorie of Carrick.
“Rise, nephew,” Robert commanded. “You are welcome here.”
Robert’s nephew stood rigid and straight of spine. He had the Bruce height, but none of their more informal nature. “Your assumption being that I come inclined to your cause.”
“Have you?”
He tilted his flaxen head. “Blood binds me.”
Randolph’s rigid accent revealed he had spent a fair amount of his years, though that be not a few more than mine own, south of the border.
“Ah, but in Scotland,” Edward chimed at his back, “sometimes the water is thicker than blood.”
“Infamous kin aside, what brings you, Thomas?” Robert said.
“I have with me men of honest repute who would join you: Alexander Fraser, John Somerville, and David Inchmartin.” He indicated a small group of knights at a distance behind him. “I also come to urge haste, Uncle Robert... sire.”
“We’ve heard of the Earl of Pembroke’s advance,” Edward informed him.
Randolph cast a cursory glance at Edward, and then looked again upon Robert. “And have you heard as well that he has crossed the Forth and stands now at Perth, ready and waiting for you?”
“Aye, we have heard as much.” Robert leaned hard on the left arm of his chair.
“And that at Kinross, Bishop Lamberton fell into his hands? And at Cupar, Wishart did likewise?”
King Robert crumpled beneath the weight of the words. His wife’s small hand crept over the top of his.
“This is true?” Robert whispered. Coll lifted his great head from the floor and laid his muzzle in Robert’s lap.
Randolph nodded once.
“The Earl of Fife is a ward in England,” Nigel put forth, rising from his chair. “It would follow that England would strike that earldom first. Why does Pembroke not come north now?”
Randolph grinned faintly. “It is easier to wait there behind high walls while the Comyn sympathizers flock to him, than to go around the country collecting them himself.”
“And how many do they number now?” Alexander asked.
Every person there was rapt with attention toward the young, outspoken Randolph. Rebellion, a clandestine crowning – soon enough it would all come to open war and this was the hue and cry.
“Nearly six thousand,” he said.
Stunned, Robert stared wordless at his nephew. Half a minute crawled by before any response came to his tongue. “Nigel? How many are we?”
Nigel’s forehead bunched as he tallied the numbers in his head. “With Atholl’s men from Strathbogie and Strathaan just come, hmmm... over four thousand, I reckon.”
“Then for the avengement of Wishart and Lamberton, for the citizens of Perth – tomorrow we ride to Fife.” Robert swept a hand across his eyes and down over his face, then pulled at his beard so hard it looked as though he would strip the hairs from it. “Nigel, you and Boyd will stay here in Kildrummy. Protect my family at all costs. If events do not favor us, you are to escort them to Aberdeen, where a ship will take them to Norway.”
I saw him turn his other hand over and give Elizabeth’s hand a little squeeze. Her chin fell to her breast. Tears flowed from her eyes like a river into the sea.
Ch. 27
Robert the Bruce – Methven, 1306
With the June sun strong at my back and a fit army arrayed behind me, I sat upon my horse before the walls of Perth. I stripped off my mail hood, then signaled to Christopher and my nephew, Thomas Randolph, to stay put.
Christopher lifted his reins and edged his mount forward. “My lord, you can’t –”
“Pembroke is a man of honor, Christopher. He’ll listen to what I have to say.”
The warmth of the sun beading my brow with perspiration, I rode forward, alone, up to the gates of Perth. A competent archer could have skewered me with one clean shot. But this was as much a test of Pembroke’s honor as it was to prove my courage and faith to my men.
“Show yourself, Lord Pembroke!” I shouted. At the might of my words, gulls exploded from the rooftops of Perth in a cloud of beating white wings and dithery calls. While the bright pennons of England fluttered above the drab walls, I saw strings go tight and fingers flex as a hundred arrows marked my heart.
A minute later, the swarthy Earl of Pembroke appeared atop the wall nearest the city gates. “Lord Robert? You look more hale than when last I laid eyes on you. The trappings of kingliness have imbued you with an air of confidence.”
“You have taken captive my good friends, Bishop Wishart and Bishop Lamberton. Hand them over, along with the city, or come out and fight.”
His smile flashed white in the long rays of early evening sun. “Bold as ever, you are, Bruce. But Wishart and Lamberton are no longer mine to decide the destiny of. Already they are in chains, somewhere to the south, and their fate is at the whim of my king, Edward. I venture to say their frocks shall spare them... for a time. A shame my brother-in-law John Comyn was not afforded the same grace by you.” He tilted back, gloating, then pitched forward and leaned out from the wall. “As for a fight – the day is too far gone, don’t you agree? Although I welcome the invitation, if it should extend to the morrow.”
“It does.”
“Good.” He pulled back and although he disappeared from view, his voice still smacked with authority. “Rest well. I promise a good fight.”
As I turned my mount around to rejoin my men, a single arrow whistled through the air. It twanged as it pierced the ground between Christopher and me. He blinked, but did not flinch. Ignoring the taunt, I put spurs to my horse and we rode back to my army. My men had seen enough of the aftermath of Pembroke’s destruction on their way here – entire crofts reduced to rubble and charred timbers, graves so fresh the stench of rotting corpses still permeated the air. There was no dearth of inspiration to take English heads for trophies.
“We’ll pull back to Methven,” I told Edward, “and make camp. A good meal, a good night’s rest and tomorrow... Pembroke will get what he came for.”
Last night we had been encamped near Methven along the River Tay, just north of Scone. Several days earlier, my brothers Thomas and Alexander had left us to continue gathering arms and men elsewhere. I cannot say I sent them off without reluctance, but I had to gather what help I could and there was no time to waste now that the English were north of the Forth. I had left Nigel in Kildrummy, for I knew he would take no unneeded risks where my family was concerned. Edward, as always, I kept near me, for his sake as well as my own.
The men were not happy being put off, but they were hungry and in need of rest, for we had ridden hard from Kildrummy to Perth. And I much preferred to meet the English with spirited soldiers at my bidding.
Long after the sun had slipped from the sky, the pink glow of twilight lingered in the west. What little talk went on that night amongst my men was hushed. Unusual for a band comprised mostly of Highlanders who could not ask another to pass a cup of water without a shout and rumble of fists. It spoke of just how exhausted they truly were. I had pressed the march to Fife – a feat, given the unruly lot they were – before relenting so they could renew themselves.
From Perth, we went back the six miles to a place called Methven and set up camp just south of t
he Almond River. To the southeast sprawled a patch of woodland. It was there that Christopher, Neil Campbell and a small group went with their short bows in search of game to bring back and share. The rest of us sat about our cooking fires, as we boiled pottages and passed flasks of thin ale. Some, footsore, had already bedded down, too weary for dreams. Their packs were their pillows. The stars, their blankets.
For a time, I stood at the edge of camp with Edward and Thomas Randolph as we chewed over strategy.
“Not many options, as I see it.” Edward unearthed a stone with the toe of his boot and with a swift kick sent it scuttling down a short slope. “By accounts, we’ll be outnumbered two or three to our every one.”
Randolph flinched beneath his suit of mail before casting a look around us at the lay of the land. “We can claim the higher ground, there – to the south of the river.”
“He’ll have anticipated that move of us,” I said, uneasy, “but as you said, Edward, we’ve precious few options. It will at least draw Pembroke further from the city. A small advantage for us. Pass the order, then. Up and in position before sunrise.”
Nodding, Thomas and Edward went off to relay my command. Nearby, young Douglas was perched in a tree, twirling a knife between his hands, his feet dangling on either side of the stout limb which he straddled.
“A bit too eager, wasn’t he?” James said to me.
I stepped over a snoring soldier and stood directly below James. The toe of his boot swung in front of my eyes. I stopped it with the flat of my palm. “Who?”
“The Earl of Pembroke.” He stabbed the point of the knife deep into the tree limb.
“Why do you say?”
His shoulders lifted. “I just don’t ever trust any of them – Englishmen, that is.”
“Ah.” I folded my arms across my chest. “You said something like that before.”
“No, I said I hated them then.”
“Aye, well, at least I know what side he’s on. It’s the Scotsmen around me I worry about.”
Pulling his knife free, he swung a leg over and dropped to the ground on quiet cat’s feet.
“Do you trust me?” he asked directly.
“With my life.”
“But you don’t know me.”
Ever since he joined us near Lanark I had watched him closely. If Longshanks had sent him as a spy, he was a damn good one. James was always there, always listening, and far sharper of mind than anyone would know of him because of his sparing words.
“I knew your father. Isn’t that enough? Now, best steal a few hours rest, both of us, for tomor–”
His head snapped around. Looking wide-eyed toward the woods, he whispered, “Do y’hear?”
“Christopher and the others, hunting perhaps?” In truth, I could hear nothing but low conversation and the stirrings of men nodding off to sleep.
“Listen.” His finger drifted up, pointing toward the black tangle of trees a few hundred feet away.
What came to my ears were sounds that made the heart go cold: the far-off clank of bits, the grating of metal on metal, the snap of fallen branches underfoot... and the muffled rattle of weapons held ready. I scanned the tree line and at the far northern end, closest to the river, a glimmer of starlight played off a shield painted with a red dragon.
“Pembroke.” I yanked my sword from its scabbard. “Tell everyone to arms. We’re under attack.”
Without faltering, he raced through the camp, yelling, “To arms! To arms! The English are upon us!”
The camp burst to life at his sharp cry. Men scrambled for their arms and horses. The sudden surge of bodies and black chaos made it near to impossible to find my own tent. As I spun around to get my bearings, I tripped over a pot of boiling water. The glowing coals of the fire scattered. Hot spray splattered over my legs. Embers sizzled as the water hit them. I gasped at the pain, but in a moment the sting was forgotten with a greater terror. The English had parted from the forest’s edge. The thunder of hooves shook the ground. Edward reached me as I scurried to find my horse.
“Where is Gerald?” I shouted. I forced myself not to limp. I could not have my men see me in distress. “Damn it. I need him now!”
“What orders?” Edward attempted to follow me without getting trampled underfoot.
“Tell them to hold back. No matter what, they are not to leave the camp.”
He broke away into the darkness. All I could see around me was panic, disorientation and desperation. Damn! I had thought Pembroke a man of his word. Never expected this of him. But I should have... should have known. Where was Gerald?
Finally, I found my tent and burst inside. I searched for my axe, but could not find it in the near blackness. It should have been on top of the chest. I had seen Gerald lay it there an hour past after whetting the edge. I grabbed my shield and dug an arm beneath the straps. As I turned to go outside, tugging my hood of mail over my head, I plowed into Gerald with my shield. He stumbled backward, then jerked a weapon up to his shoulder in reflex. Moments later, he lowered it with a shaking hand as recognition swept over his face. His grip on my axe haft was like a set of irons. I had to wrench it from him.
“M-m-m’lord?” he stammered. “Your horse?”
“No time, Gerald. Arm yourself with swift prayers. There’s a knighthood in it for you should we both live to tell of this.” I pushed past him and raced back toward the edge of camp. A few dozen of the Highlanders who had kept their weapons at hand had broken into a run, their battle cries shrill as banshees in the frightful night air. English cavalry bore down on them, lances couched. Then they struck their marks with a mighty crash. Blades drew back and cut silver through the blackness. The suicidal fools before them toppled like wheat before the scythe.
I grabbed Edward by the elbow. “I told you to tell them to hold.”
“I did!” He jerked his arm away. “Bloody, fucking Highlanders. They don’t heed anyone but their own – not me, not even you.”
There was no more time for debate. They fell upon us in an awful rush. Horsed knights rammed into our ragged lines. A lightly clad knight galloped at me. He swung his broadsword clumsily. I ducked, then spun and hacked open his calf with my axe. As a howl tore from his throat, I hooked the underside of my axe head in the crook of his arm and ripped him from his saddle, dashing him to the ground. My foot slammed down on his head, shoving it into the earth to expose his neck. I made merciful work of him and claimed his horse as my own.
In the midst of all the screams and grunts and curses, bodies fallen and blades arcing high, I caught sight of Pembroke’s dragon surcoat. I tried to make my way to him, but there were fifty men between the two of us and most of those were not my own. I fought on and on until my arms and legs burned. I shouted to my commanders and men when I could discern them, told them to hold ground and gather round. Deaf to my commands, they fended off each blow that rained upon them. As I continued to fight for my own life, some of my bravest and ablest fell wounded and dead around me. In time, Christopher, who had somehow made it back from his hunt on horse, found me and held off more attackers than I could count. Twice, he saved my life. Together we fought our way to the center of camp, now a ruinous, blood-soaked battlefield, littered with bodies.
When I saw Edward with a small, but indomitable circle of Scotsmen, warding off the English that came after them, I took heart. Sword heavy in hand, with one thrust I laid low an English pikeman. As I lifted the reins of my newly acquired horse to turn and join my brother, something heavy and sharp snagged my right forearm. I heard a mocking laugh and jerked my head around. The iron points of a morning star were embedded in the links of my mail. Its chain rattled and I looked past its length to find myself staring straight into the triumphant eyes of a mounted English knight, one I recognized from the courts as Sir Philip Mowbray.
I struggled to free my sword arm. His laughter grew more heinous as he pulled me toward him. My left arm was wedged tight inside the straps of my shield. I sought leverage to pull my arm free. F
inally, I loosened my shield and flung it to the ground. Before I could lift my axe from my belt, Mowbray yanked me from the back of my horse. Unbalanced, I tried to pull him down with me, but as his weapon ripped from my arm I fell backward, onto the ground. The air shot from my lungs. My head smacked against a stone.
“Help! Help!” Mowbray shouted over the clang and rumble. “I have their king!”
From where I lay dazed, I saw Christopher spur his horse hard, swing his whole torso forward and deal a forceful blow to Mowbray, who reeled in his saddle. Gulping air, I rolled away from the tangle of horses’ legs and pushed myself to my knees. I picked up the sword that had fallen from my grasp. I do not know where I found the strength or purpose, but I latched onto the bridle of my horse, found the stirrup and pulled myself up.
Some fifty or sixty feet yet away, Gerald beat an Englishman to the ground with his sword, flailing back and forth with the last waning shreds of his strength. He glanced at me, grinned in a moment of pending victory, and pulled back his blade for the final plunge. Then, his eyes went wide. He fell to the ground in a lifeless heap. His head flopped forward at an odd angle – his neck severed by a throwing axe.
I wanted to go to him, to pick him up in my arms even as he lay there with the blood draining warm from the back of his head onto the trodden ground. But there was nothing I could do. Nothing. His eyes were fixed open, toward the stars. He jerked once, then went stiff. He was gone. Dead.
Then I cried a cry greater than any I had ever given. “For freedom and kingdom! Rally all to me!”
As the angels above received my plea, Scots drew around me. We battled our way to Edward’s circle and those of us on horse then broke from the melee and made toward the woods. Men on foot straggled behind. Riding hard and fast, I had no chance to take account of who had made it free, but James and Gil de la Haye were there beside me, beating off the few determined English who tried to pursue us.
At last, we reached the edge of the wood, our breaths coming in bursts and our horses drenched with lather. The brightness of morning broke over the hills and shed its red, revealing light on Methven.
The Crown in the Heather (The Bruce Trilogy) Page 23