Kingdom: Insurrection Trilogy Book 3 Page 10

  As Humphrey approached the pavilion, he saw Dungal MacDouall at the head of a company. Scanning the devices on shields and surcoats, he realised there were knights of the Black Comyn with the captain, as well as men from Galloway. Royal guards stood to attention around the edges of the pavilion, their eyes on the Scots. Henry Percy was with them, standing by the king’s table, his stomach straining against his belt. The lord looked preposterously fat; a big blond egg set beside the king, whose gauntness could not now be concealed, even by the sumptuous folds of his mantle. Humphrey concentrated his shifting vision on two figures in the centre of the ring of men. They were kneeling on the grass, their tonsured heads shiny with sweat in the light from the lanterns. The prisoners were William Lamberton and Robert Wishart.

  Even through his stupor, Humphrey was well aware of the value of this prize. The bishops had been at the heart of the rebellion since the earliest days, especially Wishart, the aged, but bellicose Bishop of Glasgow, who had been one of the guardians of Scotland in the interregnum that followed the death of King Alexander. An advocate and friend of William Wallace, he had since thrown his considerable influence behind Robert’s uprising. Wishart was sagging against Lamberton, hands bound tightly behind his stooped back.

  Edward, seated at his table, looking down on the two men, appeared pleased with his bounty, although Humphrey found his pain-clenched face hard to read these days.

  ‘. . . and we caught his grace at Cupar, my lord king,’ Dungal MacDouall was saying. ‘He was using the gift of timber you sent for repairs to his cathedral to build siege engines. They were to be employed in Bruce’s war against you.’

  Edward fixed Wishart with his barbed stare. ‘What say you?’ When the bishop didn’t answer the king rose, planting his hands on the table. ‘Answer me, damn you! Why did my charity warrant such flagrant abuse?’

  Wishart raised his head. ‘What good, Lord Edward, is a new roof to a congregation who are prisoners in their own land? The people of my diocese want freedom, not shelter.’

  The bishop was nudged roughly in the back by the knee of one of MacDouall’s men. He pitched forward, but managed to avoid falling on his face by steadying himself against Lamberton.

  ‘Peace, old friend,’ Lamberton murmured, as Wishart struggled upright.

  ‘Have you questioned them on Bruce’s whereabouts?’

  ‘They would not say, but I do not believe they know. They seemed most unsettled,’ MacDouall added, with a ghost of a smile, ‘when we told them of Bruce’s plight. Besides, my lord, we do not need their cooperation. I can tell you myself where he is.’

  Edward’s eyes flashed with expectation at this, but he wasn’t yet finished with the bishops. He looked down on them, his thin hair drifting around his haggard face like cobwebs. ‘I see not the robes of your orders, only the rebels inside. I cannot send men of the cloth to the scaffold, however deep their treachery. But be assured you will spend the rest of your lives in irons. Look to the north, both of you. Mark it well.’ Edward pointed to the distant hills. ‘This will be the closest you will ever come to your land again.’ He gestured to his guards. ‘Take them.’

  As the condemned bishops were marched away, Humphrey made his way over to the king. Edward acknowledged him with a brief glance. Feeling a wave of dizziness, Humphrey gripped the edge of the table. Henry Percy frowned at him, disapproval plain in his cold blue eyes.

  He, along with Humphrey, had been the greatest beneficiary of Robert’s treachery. The king had granted Percy Turnberry and Carrick, while Humphrey had been given Robert’s lands in Annandale and his estates in England. The prize, although great, had not been enough to soothe the deep wound gouged in Humphrey by Robert’s betrayal, a wound since poisoned by his own anger, humiliation and creeping self-doubts. His mind tormented him, telling him he had been closest to Robert; he was the one who should have seen the enemy masquerading as his friend. He didn’t want land – he wanted answers. Answers as to how he had been made such a fool and what, in turn, that said about him.

  Humphrey met Percy’s disdainful gaze, determined to assert himself here. If anyone was going to be given the task of hunting Bruce down, he wanted it to be him.

  The king had turned his attention back to Dungal MacDouall. ‘Tell me, Captain. Where is Bruce?’

  ‘We know he left Aberdeen ten days ago with what was left of his army, my lord. He is heading for Islay. There, he plans to rebuild his forces with the strength of the men of the Isles and his tenants in Antrim.’

  ‘Islay?’ Edward’s face was pensive in the coppery lantern light. ‘So, he hopes to sway the loyalty of the MacDonalds? Is my cousin in pursuit?’

  ‘This I do not know, my lord. Sir Aymer had left for Aberdeen by the time we discovered Bruce’s plans. I have sent word to him.’

  ‘And how, exactly, did you discover this?’

  ‘I captured one of Bruce’s followers in Perth. Alexander Seton claimed to have deserted and wished to surrender, but he wasn’t willing to divulge Bruce’s plans, at least not at first. I took him to Sir John of Buchan. My master wrested the information from him. Sir John has gone with all speed to warn the MacDougalls that Bruce is headed their way. Bruce, we were told, has women and children with him. His progress will be slow. God willing, my master and the lords of Argyll will be able to bar his route to Islay and capture him.’

  Edward was silent, thinking. Finally, he nodded. ‘Thank you, Captain. My men will show you where your company can rest for the night. We will speak again at first light.’

  The king watched as the Scots were ushered down the hillside, before turning his attention to Humphrey. His grey eyes were alert, the pain that clouded them replaced by fierce intent. ‘Prepare your men, Humphrey. You will ride to Carrick and there join forces with my son. Take MacDouall with you, he can escort you to the Black Comyn. Use the Comyn’s strength by all means, but I want you to confront Bruce and his men.’

  ‘I will not fail you, my lord.’

  ‘All his possessions must be brought to me intact. You understand?’

  Humphrey knew what Edward spoke of. ‘I swear, my lord, by Michaelmas you will have Bruce in custody and the Staff of Malachy will be back in Westminster Abbey. I will not let him undermine all we have sacrificed in the struggle to protect our kingdom.’

  Edward drummed his thin fingers on the table top. ‘Do not forget the prophecy, Humphrey. I want that box returned to me at all cost.’

  ‘Of course, my lord.’

  The king held his gaze, looking as if he might say something more, but then he turned to Henry Percy. ‘Go to Aberdeen. Tell Aymer to stay in the city in case Bruce evades the trap and attempts to head back east. I want the son of a bitch surrounded.’ Edward made a fist of his hand. ‘With a noose tightening around his neck.’

  Dismissed, Humphrey made his way back to his tent, surer and more sober with every step. Feeling new energy pulsing through him, he thought of the day he was initiated as a Knight of the Dragon, tasked by the king with a quest on which the future of their kingdom depended.

  He had first learned of the Last Prophecy from his father, who told him of its discovery at Nefyn in Wales, following the fall of the Welsh prince, Llywelyn ap Gruffudd. Translated by a Welshman loyal to King Edward, the prophecy revealed that the four relics of Brutus, the founder of Britain, must be gathered together again, united under one ruler. According to the ancient text, consigned to a locked box to prevent it crumbling into dust, the division of the kingdom between the sons of Brutus, who had each taken one relic as a symbol of his reign, had caused Britain’s descent into centuries of chaos, war and poverty. The island’s final ruin was now approaching, as foreseen in a vision of Merlin, and only the unification of the treasures – and thus the kingdom itself – would prevent it.

  The king had charged his knights to seize the relics alluded to in the prophecy from the four corners of Britain. Curtana, the Sword of Mercy, symbol of English royal power, had been the first to be presented at the shrine
of the Confessor in Westminster Abbey. Next, the Crown of Arthur, taken from the rebels during the conquest of Wales, and the Stone of Destiny, removed from Scotland. Last was the Staff of Malachy, Ireland’s holiest relic, brought to the king by Robert Bruce on his surrender; a peace offering.

  Telling his knights to finish their meal and be ready to receive orders, Humphrey asked his servants to fetch food, a basin of water and a razor. Ducking inside the tent, his eyes went to his armour and broadsword. Rust had bloomed on the mail. He would have his squire clean it and whet his sword. Bending to pull a fresh shirt from his pack, his gaze alighted on the half-finished wine by his bed. Picking it up, he stared into the red depths.

  He remembered raising his goblet to Robert the night of the young man’s inception into the Knights of the Dragon at Conwy Castle, drinking to their sacred brotherhood. Robert had taken the same oaths he had. The man had seemed so sincere in his utterance of them, but how could he have been when, by taking the staff and the prophecy from Westminster, he had set Britain back on the path to destruction? His betrayal had made a mockery of everything Humphrey had worked for; everything he trusted. It made a mockery of him too. He had stood up for the man when no one else would, defended him. How could he have been so foolish? Had Robert ever believed, or was it all just lies?

  Writtle, England

  1302 AD (4 years earlier)

  Humphrey felt Bess’s arm brush his as she leaned forward to push the ivory pawn across the chessboard. He glanced at her and smiled, distracted for a moment from his study of Robert, who sat opposite with his young wife.

  A servant left the great hall carrying an armful of silver plates, soiled with the remains of the feast. As the man opened the door a blast of air blew into the chamber, causing the banners on the walls to flutter against their nails and a large cobweb that laced the oak beams to billow and break. The fire in the hearth gusted, sending sparks roaring up the chimney. Writtle Manor was a draughty old place, thought Humphrey, in need of some urgent repairs, but Robert’s father seemed more interested in spending his money on a steady supply of Gascon wine. The old lord had retired drunk to his bed some hours ago, leaving the four of them alone to finish the game.

  Bess drew her crimson mantle, brocaded with flowers, tighter and leaned into him for warmth. Slipping an arm around her waist, Humphrey returned his attention to Robert, whose eyes were on the chessboard, his goblet gripped in his hand. He appeared preoccupied, but not, it seemed, by the contest. His stare was distant and unfocused as if he were looking through the board to something only he could see. Firelight bruised his face, highlighting the frown that creased his brow. Not for the first time, Humphrey wished he could see into that closed mind.

  It was seven months since Robert had surrendered to the king at Westminster and in all that time, despite searching for it, Humphrey had seen nothing to indicate that his submission was anything other than genuine. But, still, he could not bring himself to trust the man. After his desertion to join the insurrection led by William Wallace, Robert had spent five years fighting against them. Humphrey’s gaze drifted to the fragment of iron that hung on a leather thong around Robert’s neck, visible in the cleft of his shirt. He remembered the king’s order, issued on the day of Robert’s surrender: that he was to rebuild their old friendship and, in doing so, find out what had happened in Ireland. Robert had been wounded by that crossbow bolt and Edward wanted to know who his attacker was and whether or not they were still alive. He had been very explicit about this.

  Robert’s eyes flicked up suddenly, meeting his gaze. Humphrey covered himself by taking a sip of wine. Robert’s wife, Elizabeth, moved her knight across the board taking one of their pawns, her young face taut with concentration. Bess smiled and countered.

  As Robert’s eyes returned to the board, Humphrey recalled the evening six months ago in this hall when he had asked the king’s question. Robert had said he hadn’t known the man who attacked him, who was killed by Ulster’s knights before he could find out. Humphrey thought he had glimpsed a lie in Robert’s face, but drink and resentment had been hot in both of them that night and thoughts of the truth had been swept aside in the fight that followed. In reporting back to Edward, Humphrey had suggested the king ask Sir Richard de Burgh for his version of events, but the king surprised him, saying the Earl of Ulster had already corroborated Robert’s story. Clearly, even the word of one of his staunchest vassals hadn’t satisfied him.

  Humphrey sensed something secret and unspoken, spun like a web between Robert and Edward, that he now found himself caught in. The notion the king was asking after a killer sent by his own instruction had entered his mind, but he had forced that thought aside. The secret slaying of a man of Robert’s rank, without trial or judgement, was unthinkable. Nobles died heroic in battle, like his father, or else were captured for ransom. They weren’t even executed, let alone murdered in cold blood.

  ‘It is your move, my lord.’

  Elizabeth was looking expectantly at Robert.

  ‘You take it.’

  Elizabeth glanced at Bess and Humphrey, then lowered her eyes. Pressing her lips together, she picked up another piece. The flared sleeve of her dress toppled a bishop, which rolled off the board. Humphrey snatched out his hand. Elizabeth reached for it at the same time and grabbed his hand instead. She withdrew sharply as if burned by the contact, her cheeks flushing. There was a clatter as the bishop struck the floor. Humphrey bent and picked it up, setting it back on the board. He smiled at Elizabeth, who smiled self-consciously back. She was seventeen, but seemed much younger.

  Bess yawned deeply. ‘I believe that heralds the ending of our game.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Humphrey, feeling her pinch his side softly. ‘We should retire. I’ll need to leave early tomorrow. I have matters to attend to on my estate.’

  Elizabeth’s face fell, but she covered her disappointment with a forced smile. ‘Of course.’ She looked meaningfully at her husband, who seemed to come back to life.

  ‘I’ll have Edwin show you to the guest quarters,’ Robert said, rising.

  A short time later, after the steward had escorted them to their room and the servant who banked up the fire had left, closing the door behind him, Humphrey sat on the bed and let out a sigh, feeling the tension of the evening ebbing slowly. Across the room, Bess had shrugged off her cloak and was fiddling with the laces on the sides of her gown. Like all the king’s children, she was tall and long-limbed. Her dark hair was trussed up under a pearl-studded net, which matched her crimson dress. Firelight flushed the skin of her neck as she twisted to pick at the knots. Humphrey crossed to her. ‘Allow me.’

  She smiled as he pulled gently at the bindings. When he bent forward to kiss her neck, she closed her eyes and sighed. ‘Poor Elizabeth. She seems so unhappy.’ Her eyes opened and she looked over her shoulder at him. ‘I’m not even sure they share the same bed. I’m not sure they ever have.’

  Humphrey withdrew, discomforted. ‘A man’s marriage is his own business, Bess. I’ll not get involved. Neither should you.’

  Bess took his hand and drew it back to her waist to continue undoing her gown. She pressed her shoulders into his chest. ‘I’m just glad for what I have.’

  ‘Not as glad as I,’ Humphrey murmured in response, but even as the gown slipped down to her waist and Bess turned to kiss him, his thoughts remained fixed on Robert.

  Chapter 9

  Dunstaffnage Castle, Scotland, 1306 AD

  The hooves clattered off the drawbridge as a dozen riders funnelled in through the stone bulk of the gatehouse. The guards stood aside, allowing them to pass under the iron fangs of the portcullis and into the courtyard beyond, enclosed by high, quadrangular walls, from which projected great towers at the north and west corners. Built along one wall was a grand, two-storey hall, its whitewashed walls glazed by torchlight.

  John MacDougall, Lord of Argyll, strode out through the hall’s doors as the riders dismounted by the well, his steward following
in his wake. John pushed a hand through his red hair, dishevelled from sleep. Even though the hour was late the courtyard was cast in pale twilight. It would barely get darker than this tonight, although it was now several weeks past midsummer and John discerned a faint change in the light. Over the next few months the nights would slowly deepen to pitch, darkness stretching into the days; a creeping tide of shadows that would eventually fill all hours, the castle besieged by howling winds and winter’s bone-marrow chill. But, for now, all was calm and the breeze mild.

  ‘Sir, the earl has some fifty men with him, waiting in the grounds.’

  ‘Make space for them and their horses,’ John told his steward. ‘Clear out the boathouse if you have to.’

  As John headed over to the riders he glanced up, checking the parapet walk. Half a dozen guards were stationed there, the half-light making them look more like statues built out of the fabric of the castle. Below, in the bailey, other guards stood sentry: two outside the north tower, the bottom chamber of which was piled high with sacks of oats and grain, and another four beside a long row of spears propped against the wall, ready to furnish an army. Gratified, John approached his kinsman.

  John Comyn, Earl of Buchan and head of the Black Comyns, dismounted his palfrey with a metal shiver of mail and spurs. He handed the reins to one of his knights, all of whom were dressed, as he was, in black surcoats adorned with three white sheaves of wheat. The Black Comyn was an imposing man, broad in the shoulders and built like a barrel, but with most of his bulk still muscle rather than fat, surprising in a man of his advanced years. Ten years John MacDougall’s senior, the earl was approaching sixty, his face creased with age and webbed with battle scars.

  Holding back his impatience to discover why his kinsman had returned so unexpectedly, John embraced him. ‘Welcome, brother.’ As his steward spoke to one of the earl’s knights, John saw the man gesture to a large sack draped over the back of one of the horses.