Insurrection: Renegade [02] Read online

  The water drying cold on his cheeks, Robert turned from the basin and crossed to the chamber’s window. The voices of his men came to him, muffled through the door, as they conveyed the rest of his belongings from the wagon up to their new quarters. The glass in the window was slightly distorted, fragmenting the marshy landscape beyond the palace buildings. He toyed with the head of the crossbow bolt as he stared out.

  Edward claimed to have discovered the Last Prophecy within a stronghold of the rebel prince, Llywelyn ap Gruffudd in Nefyn, the same Welsh village where the Prophecies of Merlin had been found over a century earlier and were later translated by Geoffrey of Monmouth. In his History of the Kings of Britain, Monmouth described a vision of Merlin in which the prophet foresaw the ruin of Britain, unless the relics of Brutus were reunited under one king. It was the prophecy Edward found at Nefyn that named these four relics. Soon after the discovery, he established his Round Table and the Knights of the Dragon, their purpose to help him retrieve them.

  The Crown of Arthur, the Sword of Mercy, the Staff of Jesus, the Stone of Destiny: these sacred relics, whose origins were shrouded in mystery, held the essence of each nation’s sovereignty, recognisable to all. By taking them, Edward executed a spiritual conquest over the physical realms he sought to dominate and the Last Prophecy excused him, justifying his wars as being fought for the good of Britain.

  Robert had always doubted the truth of Merlin’s vision, yet had found its apparently accurate prediction of Alexander’s death difficult to discredit. But now, after his discovery at Dunluce, fate was no longer the only suspect. Was it the fulfilment of prophecy, or a man’s intent? He closed his eyes, thinking through the dates. The timing – Margaret’s recognition as Alexander’s heir and his betrothal to Yolande, Edward’s conquest of Wales and establishment of the Round Table – all seemed to fit. He could have sent Adam to join Yolande’s retinue with the aim of killing the king and rendering the Last Prophecy incontrovertible, proving his righteousness to his subjects. The question that remained was whether the text itself was real and Edward had simply sought to fulfil the vision on its pages, or whether he had invented it for his own purposes. The latter had the potential to undo him.

  If the men of the Round Table discovered he had fooled them all these years, what would they do? Prophecy had been the fire that had stoked their convictions; had lifted them above the hardship of the campaigns and the loss of men, the rising taxes and the depletion of their fortunes. Edward had survived the civil war in his youth, led by Simon de Montfort, and had come close to one over his struggle for Gascony. Now – with his treasury emptied and his reputation marked by the long, costly war in Scotland – would he survive another?

  Robert might never prove what he feared was true: that Edward had ordered the murder of King Alexander to gain control of Scotland. But the prophecy? That might be a key he could turn to change his kingdom’s fate. He had seen the Latin translation Edward claimed to have had made from the original Welsh: a beautifully bound and illustrated book containing images of the treasures and motifs from the legends of King Arthur. But the source from which these writings were taken the king kept in a sealed box, the pages he’d found at Nefyn so ancient it was believed they would crumble into dust if removed. Robert had glimpsed that black box once at the shrine of the Confessor in Westminster Abbey, the day the Crown of Arthur had been placed there.

  Hearing his porters moving chests around in the adjacent room, Robert opened his eyes. He was only yards away from the abbey, where the king’s secrets might be unlocked. James Stewart’s warnings about any search for proof echoed in his mind, but they were faint in the face of the determination building inside him. He needed to see inside that box.

  Chapter 19

  Westminster, England, 1302 AD

  As the doorward bowed and opened the doors, Edward swept into the Painted Chamber, the hems of his scarlet robe whispering across the patterned tiles. Humphrey followed, his eyes on the king’s stiff back as he strode to his desk, which was dwarfed by a grand table that divided the narrow room. At the far end was a canopied bed, the green posts of which were decorated with yellow stars, a favourite motif of Edward’s father, Henry III, who had lavished a fortune on the chamber. Edward paused at the desk, before turning to the stained-glass window behind. Violet prisms of light were fractured and scattered by his frame.

  Humphrey stood waiting, wondering why the king had summoned only him from Westminster Hall. As the silence elongated, his eyes drifted over the vivid murals that gave the chamber its name. Muted by February’s pallor, the flowing robes of the Vices and Virtues, the crowns of biblical kings and the gallant form of Judas Maccabeus, an Old Testament Arthur, seemed flat and dull. Humphrey remembered when he had first come here to attend an opening session of parliament with his father. He had stepped impatiently in behind the shuffling lords to be dazzled by the blaze of colour. Every stroke of paint on the walls – newly restored after a fire – had gleamed in the sunlight reflected through the windows by the Thames. Behind the canopied bed the Painted Chamber’s greatest glory, a scene of the crowning of St Edward the Confessor, glimmered with gold.

  ‘Leave us.’

  Humphrey glanced round, seeing two pages slipping out quietly. He hadn’t even noticed they were there. When the door thudded shut, the king turned to face him, haloed by the luminescence of the stained window behind. Standing there, erect, the gold crown encircling his head, he looked to Humphrey like an image in the glass itself; a king of old embedded in the fabric of the palace, set there as an example of good, or evil. The illusion was broken as Edward spoke.

  ‘Do you believe it to be genuine?’

  Humphrey knew the king referred to Robert’s surrender, just witnessed in Westminster Hall. At once, he realised Edward had summoned him here because he was the one who knew Robert most; who had been his closest comrade during his time in the king’s service. The realisation was not a flattering one. The fact was he should have seen Robert’s betrayal coming. He often felt Edward thought this too and blamed him for the Scot’s desertion.

  ‘I smell some trick,’ Edward continued into Humphrey’s taut silence. ‘But I find it hard to believe Earl Richard wouldn’t have seen through a lie in the months Bruce spent in his custody. He vouches for the man. That much was made plain by his proposition.’

  ‘Sir Richard was an ally of the Bruce family. Who is to say, my lord, that old allegiance isn’t somehow bound up in his trust?’

  The king’s eyes narrowed, but he shook his head. ‘I have faith in Ulster. Besides, he had nothing to gain by an alliance with Bruce, not without knowing for certain I would accept his surrender. If I had rejected Bruce, his English inheritance would have been lost to him, along with his Scottish estates. He faced going from earl to pauper overnight.’ Edward paused. ‘But, even discounting Ulster’s patronage, Bruce freely gave up his most powerful means of bargaining with me.’ His eyes glinted with satisfaction as he spoke of his new acquisition. ‘The Staff of Malachy, more than anything, persuades me that his surrender may well be genuine.’

  ‘My lord, the unification of Brutus’s relics is indeed a moment to be honoured – all of us have striven for this day for years. But this aside, I believe it would be safer and wiser to throw Bruce in the Tower.’

  ‘Perhaps. But think beyond your prejudice, Humphrey. Bruce could be far more useful to me as a willing ally, closely watched and guarded, than an embittered prisoner. His defection is a severe strike to the rebels’ cause and will do great harm to their morale. Through him I will show them the futility in continuing their struggle against my dominion. In short, Bruce may prove invaluable when I begin my new campaign.’

  Edward’s tone sharpened on the last words. Humphrey knew it had aggrieved him deeply to seal a truce with Scotland last autumn on King Philippe’s urging.

  After the rebels’ attack on Lochmaben, the damage of which was still being repaired, the king had wanted nothing more than to pursue the Scots int
o Selkirk Forest and bleed the life from every last one of them, but the loss of his base, along with the approach of winter and the improbability of finding the rebels in their secret lair, prevented him. The only thing that consoled him was the knowledge that the truce was a temporary feint. When the spring came he would lay Scotland waste from sea to sea.

  Recently, Edward had been listening with interest to reports from his spies speaking of growing trouble in Flanders, which Philippe had annexed to his kingdom four years earlier. French officials were finding it difficult to keep control and there was rebellion in the air. Edward clearly felt this would keep his cousin occupied long enough for him to find a solution to the Balliol problem, for he had been speaking more frequently and ardently of a new Scottish campaign.

  Humphrey was worried that the king was letting his hunger to defeat the rebels cloud his judgement. Resentment bubbled hotly under the surface of his concern as he saw that Edward sought assurance from him; reason to throw caution to the wind and accept Robert into his household if it would help him break the last of the Scottish resistance. ‘What if he has come here on behalf of the Scots to spy? What if he deserts you again, my lord, taking valuable information on campaign plans back to the rebels? It is too dangerous to risk it.’

  The king’s craggy face remained impassive. ‘That is why I want the son of a whore watched. My men in Scotland will keep their ears to the ground for any sign he is still in contact with his old allies. Any hint of deception and Bruce will spend the rest of his years in the Tower.’ Edward paused. ‘In the meantime, I want you to win back his trust—’ He held up a hand as Humphrey began to protest. ‘Bruce returned to me out of desperation. I am not fool enough to think he will willingly give up any information that could harm his people. He will offer me only what is required to keep my faith. But I want you to draw the rest – anything that might aid my forthcoming campaign – from him. Drink with him, talk to him, prove yourself a friend.’

  Humphrey said nothing; he didn’t trust himself to.

  ‘One last thing, Humphrey. In seeking Bruce’s friendship, I want you to find out what happened to him in Ireland. He said he was wounded by a crossbow bolt. I want to know who his attacker was and whether or not they are still alive.’

  Humphrey’s brow furrowed as the king moved out from behind the desk. ‘Can I ask why, my lord?’

  The king went to the long table to pour a goblet of wine. Above him on the wall, Tranquillity pressed her painted foot down on the hunched body of Anger, a switch in her virtuous hand as she prepared to lash the Vice.

  ‘I simply want to know all that led him to the point of surrender,’ finished Edward, taking a draught of wine. ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Who attacked him, Humphrey. And whether or not they are still alive.’

  Robert followed the usher along the passageway, his brother and two squires behind him. Music and the din of conversation and laughter spilled down the corridor. He was glad of the change of scene, having mostly been confined to his quarters for the past few days while he awaited the king’s decision on Ulster’s proposition. With the walls closing in at the prospect of that fate, he’d had plenty of time to think, frustratingly close to the abbey and that sealed box. He was desperate to see the king again; to search his face for sign of the great sin he believed lay behind those pale eyes. Finally, that morning, when he was as taut and stretched as a thread on a loom, Robert was told he would be the king’s guest at a feast that evening.

  Ahead, double doors opened into the White Hall. The cacophony of voices assailed Robert, along with a welcome pulse of heat, which melted the last of the evening’s chill. The chamber’s walls and most of the furnishings were white. It was starkly, coldly beautiful; a winter palace of a room, adorned with tapestries in ivory and silver, depicting a unicorn being pursued by knights. The quest began with huntsmen and dogs tracking through snow, and the chase, which followed across several tapestries, ended in the death and unmaking. Here the unicorn, felled by one bold knight, became a woman, lying prone beneath snow-laden trees.

  At the far end of the hall was a gallery with doorways set between carved wooden panels, through which servants came and went. The gallery was topped with a platform where the heads of minstrels could just be seen. The metallic notes of a harp and the thud of a drum were joined by the high voices of two young men. They were singing the deeds of Sir Perceval and his search for the Grail. Their words soared across the beams of the chamber, while below was a scene to rival any from Camelot.

  Two long trestles faced one another across the hall, covered with white linen and flanked by cushioned benches. The benches were packed with lords and ladies attired in velvet tunics and feathered caps, satin gowns and veils. The flames of beeswax candles were reflected in the curved surfaces of silver bowls and goblets. As the last few guests entered the hall, Robert and his men among them, the servants were already bringing out dishes of lampreys swimming in juices, salvers laden with porpoise and boar, and pies crammed with the bodies of birds.

  For a fleeting moment, Robert was back in his grandfather’s hall at Lochmaben, enveloped by the warmth of laughter and song; smelling the roasted meat of the hart he had hunted with the old lord, listening to the rise and fall of bagpipes, seeing his grandfather’s eyes sparkle with contentment as he watched his men bask in the glow of his hospitality. The illusion was shattered as his gaze came to rest on the hall’s top table. There sat King Edward, in a splendid dove-white robe, trimmed with ermine. His young queen was to the left of him, Richard de Burgh to the right.

  As the usher led him inside, Robert felt the stares of several hundred men and women turn on him. In the periphery of his vision he saw a sea of flushed faces, red mouths opening as lords murmured to their neighbours, greasy fingers poised in the act of clutching goblet or bone. Among curious glances and looks of disdain were stares of hatred. The men of the Round Table, who had once been his brothers as Knights of the Dragon in apprenticeship to Edward’s inner circle, were all present, their contempt for him as flagrant as a blow.

  Robert rested his hand on his belt, near to the place where his broadsword would normally be. His grandfather’s blade, returned to him by Ulster, was in his lodgings. No man was permitted to come armed into the king’s hall, let alone one who, until a few days ago, was deemed a traitor. With the lords and earls were noble ladies, among them Joan de Valence, Aymer’s sister and wife of John Comyn. She had borne Comyn two children while he was in Edward’s peace, but when he rebelled Joan and their offspring were ordered back to England by the king. In the weave of the tapestries beyond, Robert glimpsed the faces of wolves in the woven forests.

  His brother and squires were directed to a nearby trestle, as the usher motioned him to the king’s table. Climbing the dais steps alone, Robert heard his brother give a sharp intake of breath, but didn’t look back to see what had caused it. He came to stand before the king and bowed, the thought that all here present might have been taken in by this man’s grand and gilded lie filling his mind. He wanted to shout, to tell them their beloved king might have fooled them all. ‘My lord.’

  Edward met his gaze, his own eyes boring into Robert, as if searching for something in his face. After a pause, he spoke. ‘You may sit.’

  Robert straightened and walked the length of the table to the space at the end. He passed Humphrey de Bohun, who didn’t look at him, but turned instead to talk to the young woman beside him. Tall and slender, she wore an ethereal gown of pearl-white samite, the only thing of colour about her the blush of wine in her cheeks. She nodded at something Humphrey said, but followed Robert with cool, appraising eyes. It was Bess, the king’s youngest daughter. She looked very different to the mischievous young princess who had stuffed the token in Helena de Beauchamp’s hand and pushed her towards him years ago on the tournament field. Robert noticed one of her hands was placed over Humphrey’s. On Bess’s other side sat Elizabeth de Burgh.

  Uls
ter’s daughter was barely recognisable from the bedraggled girl who had trailed across Ireland with him only months ago. Slight of build in an ivory dress, her black hair bound up beneath a net of silver, she still had a fragility about her, but it was softer, less brittle. Almost seventeen, she was a girl on the cusp of womanhood. She didn’t meet his gaze, but kept her head bowed as he passed. Robert felt his blood rush, thinking fate – and her father – had a merciless sense of humour. Moving on, past Bishop Bek and an old man huddled in a cream cloak, he took up his place at the table’s end. As a servant slipped in to fill his goblet, Robert realised that the old man in the cloak was staring at him. The shock of recognition was a shard of ice through his heart. The man was his father.

  In the six years since Robert had seen him last the Lord of Annandale’s black hair had grown grizzled and thin. There was a patch of scalp visible on his crown, like a monk’s tonsure. His nose was webbed with veins and his skin had sagged around his chin and neck. His once broad, muscular frame had turned to fat, the voluminous cloak scarcely concealing the paunch. But the eyes, those glacial blue eyes, were the same. In them Robert saw a hundred disappointments, a thousand regrets. His father’s fist was gripped tight around a goblet of wine. His eyes narrowed on Robert, welling with resentment and accusation. He opened his mouth and went to speak, but then the king was rising and the occupants of the hall quietening, until only the footfalls of the servants and clatter of spoons could be heard. The Lord of Annandale said nothing, raising the wine to his lips instead.

  ‘Tonight, we celebrate the betrothal of my dear daughter Elizabeth to Earl Humphrey.’ King Edward paused to allow the cheers.

  Dimly, Robert noticed his brother at the trestle below staring up at their father, his face frozen in shock. Picking up his wine, he realised his hand was trembling. As the king continued, Robert barely heard a word.

  ‘We also celebrate the forthcoming marriage of Lady Elizabeth de Burgh, daughter of the Earl of Ulster, to Sir Robert Bruce.’