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‘King Philippe’s sister, Princess Marguerite,’ murmured the old man with relish, nodding at Robert. ‘Not a day over thirteen. Mark my words.’ He dug his knife into a bloody piece of beef and sucked it from the blade. ‘Our king traded his wide French lands for a tight French hole.’ With that, he licked his knife clean and pushed away his food. Ignoring the stares of those who had overheard his diatribe, he shuffled from the table and disappeared in the noisy crowd.

  The thin man began muttering to someone next to him.

  Robert looked at his brother. ‘As I said,’ he murmured, ‘the king has been busy.’

  Edward leaned back, picking something from his teeth. ‘I still think he should have welcomed you properly, no matter how preoccupied he is. You are an earl, brother. And it wasn’t so long ago that our grandfather was competing for the throne.’

  Robert tucked into his meal in taut silence.

  At first, his anger over the loss of the throne had been dampened by grief following his mother’s death, but over the past year it had risen again to plague him. The only cold comfort had come in the knowledge that the reign of Scotland’s new king was anything but content.

  After his enthronement, John Balliol had been forced by English lawyers meekly to accept that as King of Scotland he was subject to Edward’s superior authority. The promise Edward had made, assuring the Scots that his overlordship would be only temporary, had been revoked – Edward compelling Balliol to issue documents declaring this guarantee null and void. The English king then set about demonstrating his clear superiority by interfering in Scottish affairs. Lawsuits that ought to have been settled in Scotland were soon being reviewed in Westminster. When the Scots, led by John Comyn, protested, Balliol was summoned to present himself before Edward’s judges. In mourning following the recent death of his wife and queen, a subdued Balliol was treated to a humiliating dressing-down from the king himself and sentenced to lose three royal towns and castles for his contempt.

  Robert’s brother had reflected it was a poisoned chalice Balliol had supped from and that they were better off without it, but Robert couldn’t help but think their grandfather would have been able to stand up to the English king better. These thoughts had since grown into the darkening suspicion that this was the prime reason why his grandfather had not been chosen. More than once in the past few months, Robert had recalled the words of Bishop Wishart of Glasgow and the fiery Earl John of Atholl: that King Edward was only interested in expanding his own borders, at the expense of his neighbours. His grandfather had charged him with upholding the Bruce claim to the throne of Scotland, no matter who sat upon it in defiance of their right. But it seemed as though a fight for control of that throne was already well under way and he wasn’t even in the running.

  Robert drained his wine and pushed away his plate as the servants began to clear the tables. The minstrels struck up a spirited tune and a line of men and women thronged into the centre of the hall to dance. People clapped as they laced between one another. Edward was talking to the fat woman again, telling her about monstrous beasts that roamed the Scottish hills and snatched children from villages.

  ‘Sir, are you the Earl of Carrick?’

  At the question, Robert’s jaw tightened. He looked round, no longer in the mood for conversation, to see a man dressed in a blue cloak with a bold white stripe. Up close, the knight looked even younger than he had on the tournament ground. He had brown hair that had flopped in his eyes, a striking shade of green set in a broad, open face. Robert’s irritation vanished. ‘I am. You’re Sir Humphrey de Bohun, Earl of Hereford and Essex?’

  Humphrey smiled, a cleft appearing in his cheek. ‘Not quite. My father is the earl. But as I am his heir I suppose the title isn’t far wrong.’

  ‘Let me introduce . . .’ Robert went to motion to Edward, but his brother had risen and was leading the tittering fat woman into the centre of the hall, as the dancers beckoned guests to join them. Robert turned back. ‘Congratulations on your win today. It was well deserved.’ He wanted to go further and tell Humphrey he hadn’t seen a display like it, but he stopped himself, not wanting the knight to think him unsophisticated.

  ‘It is I who should be congratulating you, Sir Robert. The way in which you resolved that dispute between our fathers’ tenants in Essex was admirable.’

  Robert shook his head, embarrassed by the gratitude. ‘It was the least I could do. Our men were clearly in the wrong. They should never have been hunting in your father’s park in the first place. I hope the reparations I had them make to the earl were satisfactory?’

  ‘More than. My father wanted me to extend his thanks. He asked after your family.’

  ‘Well, my brother Alexander is at Cambridge studying divinity and my sister Christian is due to be married to the heir of the Earl of Mar.’ Robert thought about Mary and Matilda in Lochmaben, and Niall and Thomas in Antrim training for knighthood, but he guessed the knight was just being polite. ‘And I believe my father is well,’ he finished, his tone cooling. ‘He is in Norway at the court of King Eric.’

  ‘Ah, yes, your new brother-in-law.’

  Robert was taken aback. Some months ago he’d received a message with the unexpected announcement that his sister was to marry the Norwegian king. The letter had been brief, perfunctory, with no word of greeting from his father. Robert had sent a gift of a silver brooch in the shape of a rose to Isabel, hoping it was a fitting present for a woman who was to become a queen, but he had heard nothing more from over the sea. He hadn’t expected the engagement to be common knowledge yet.

  Humphrey laughed at his expression. ‘You shouldn’t be surprised, Sir Robert. Your family’s noble name is well known here and you’ll soon discover that your business is everyone else’s in court.’

  ‘I’m a little behind in the game.’

  ‘You’ll catch up. Just keep your eyes open and watch your back.’ Humphrey’s amiable grin seemed out of odds with the warning. ‘Enjoy the celebrations.’

  Robert rose. ‘Perhaps we can speak more later? I’m keen to know how I might enter the lists.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Humphrey looked interested, but then shook his head regretfully. ‘Another time. I’m afraid there is a gathering I must attend this evening.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Robert, trying to conceal his disappointment. Humphrey’s easy manner was refreshing after the guarded arrogance of most of the other nobles he had met so far. Sitting back down as the knight walked away, he toyed with his goblet, watching his brother spin the fat woman in breathless circles. Perhaps if he wasn’t the one on whom all the family’s hopes were pinned he too could be that carefree. As eldest son, Robert had known this day would come, but at nineteen it had come far sooner than he’d expected. He couldn’t well use youth as an excuse, however, for by this age his grandfather had been designated heir to the throne and had married the daughter of an English earl, obtaining enough property south of the border to rival his Scottish lands.

  Robert’s gaze was caught by the sight of Humphrey de Bohun returning.

  The young knight looked hesitant, but he smiled. ‘Do you want to join me?’

  Robert stood after a pause, sensing that silent acceptance was more valuable than gratitude in the face of the cautious offer. As he followed Humphrey across the crowded hall, he tried to catch his brother’s eye, but Edward was too engrossed in the dance to notice and now they were moving through the press of bodies and out of a door into a narrow passage.

  Humphrey led him past watchful guards on to a walkway that spanned the walls of the inmost ward. Day had turned to evening and banks of clouds had drawn in from the east. A chill wind blew their cloaks about them as they made their way along the parapet and down stone steps towards a huge, round tower.

  ‘These are King Henry’s former apartments,’ said Humphrey, as they passed more guards outside the tower’s entrance. ‘King Edward lets us use them sometimes.’

  Wondering who the us were, Robert nodded, but said nothing. He felt anti
cipation bubble up through him. Ascending spiralled stairs inside the tower behind Humphrey, he could hear voices and laughter drifting down. Humphrey opened the arched door at the top and Robert followed him into a spacious chamber with a high, vaulted ceiling, the walls of which were painted dark green, scattered with yellow stars. Couches draped with silks had been placed either side of a grand hearth. There were ten men in the chamber, several of whom Robert recognised from the tournament. Before he could attempt to put any names to the young men’s faces, his attention was caught by a large banner that hung down from supports on one wall. The material was worn and it had been patched in places, but the colour, while faded, was unmistakably scarlet and the embroidered threads, though frayed, showed a golden dragon, shrouded in fire. Robert wanted to ask Humphrey the significance of the symbol, the same emblem that decorated their shields, but the men in the chamber had fallen silent and were staring at him.

  ‘What is this, Humphrey?’ The man who had spoken was long-limbed and well-built, with black hair swept back from a hard, angular face. He gestured at Robert, a goblet grasped in his extended fist. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Did you leave your manners in the lists?’ asked Humphrey, his tone, although jocular, holding a note of caution. ‘This is a guest.’

  The black-haired knight kept his gaze on Robert. ‘This is a private gathering.’

  Ignoring him, Humphrey addressed the others. ‘May I present Sir Robert Bruce, the Earl of Carrick.’

  ‘Of course,’ said one knight, nodding to Robert from the couch where he was sprawled. He was stocky, with thick blond hair and a lazy smile that wasn’t quite reflected in his eyes, a chilly shade of blue. ‘Your family owns lands near mine in Yorkshire, Sir Robert. My father knows yours well. I’m Henry Percy, Lord of Alnwick.’

  There was a natural haughtiness in the man’s tone, which by now was quite familiar to Robert. He recognised the name and knew the young man was the grandson of Earl John de Warenne.

  Another youth, barely out of adolescence and wearing a bold grin, raised a hand in greeting. ‘Welcome, Sir Robert. I’m Thomas.’

  Robert inclined his head. A few nodded in return, the rest striking up their conversations once more. Eventually, the black-haired knight turned his hostile gaze away.

  ‘Don’t pay Aymer any heed,’ murmured Humphrey, leading Robert to where a servant was standing with a jug of wine. At Humphrey’s gesture, the servant poured two goblets. ‘He is just sore that I beat him today.’

  ‘Aymer?’

  Humphrey took a sip of wine. ‘Aymer de Valence.’ He motioned subtly to the black-haired knight. ‘Son and heir of Sir William de Valence, the Earl of Pembroke. You must have heard of him.’

  Robert had. His grandfather had fought alongside William de Valence at the Battle of Lewes and his father had been on campaign with him in Wales. A half-brother of Henry, born and raised in Poitou, Valence had come to England as a young man and had been one of the main causes of the war between the king and Simon de Montfort. If Aymer was William’s son that made him King Edward’s cousin. ‘I know the Valences by reputation,’ he said carefully.

  Humphrey chuckled, seeming to get his meaning, then pointed to the youth who had introduced himself as Thomas. ‘That’s Thomas of Lancaster, son of Earl Edmund, the king’s brother.’

  ‘I don’t think I saw him in the joust today.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have. He’s only sixteen.’ Humphrey pursed his lips appreciatively. ‘But he’ll be in the lists the day he’s dubbed. I’ve never seen anyone so good so young.’ Polishing off his wine and handing the goblet to the servant for refilling, Humphrey gestured, one by one, to the other men in the chamber.

  Robert listened as he drank the potent wine, impressed by the list of titles. These men, despite their youth, were lords of England’s greatest estates, or else were due to inherit them. As an earl, not in waiting but in name, he outranked them all, but there was no denying the blatant power held by these young men, relaxing in a former king’s apartments. The setting seemed worlds away from the sea-stained walls of Turnberry.

  Before Humphrey could finish the private introductions, the door burst open and a boy darted in. Slamming it shut behind him, he dived behind one of the couches.

  Some moments later, the door opened again and an elderly man appeared. ‘My lords,’ he wheezed, staring around at the group. ‘Have you seen the young master?’

  ‘He came and then he went,’ said Thomas of Lancaster, motioning to a door on the other side of the chamber.

  ‘Thank you, Master Thomas,’ breathed the man, heading on through. ‘Good evening to you, my lords.’

  When the old man had disappeared, his footsteps fading, the boy vaulted over the couch and wedged himself between a grinning Thomas and Henry Percy. He was rather lanky, with feathery fair hair and a very familiar face. Robert realised he was staring when Humphrey leaned in.

  ‘He looks a lot like his father, doesn’t he?’

  Robert knew at once where the familiarity came from. It was with the king himself. The boy must be his son, Edward of Caernarfon, heir to the throne of England. Robert recalled the meeting years ago, after Birgham, at which so many men had argued over the future of this boy and his marriage to Scotland’s queen. It seemed strange now to be standing in his presence.

  Thomas of Lancaster snapped his fingers at the servant, who poured out a goblet of wine. ‘If you tell your father, I’ll deny it,’ he warned when the servant handed the goblet to Edward. ‘Wine is not for the young and silly,’ he intoned, as if reciting something an adult had once said. ‘It is for men.’

  The boy’s pale brow creased as he took the goblet and drank, the wine staining his mouth. ‘My father doesn’t care what I do, so long as it is out of his sight.’ He shrugged. ‘Not since Mother died.’ As he caught sight of Robert, his frown deepened. ‘Who is he?’

  Humphrey went to answer for Robert, then paused at the sound of more hurried footsteps outside. He raised an eyebrow. ‘How many governors are chasing you tonight, my lord?’

  The door opened and a man appeared, clad in a yellow mantle embroidered with a green eagle. Robert recognised the coat of arms from the joust.

  The man glanced quickly around the room. Seeing Humphrey he crossed to him.

  Humphrey’s smile of greeting faded at the man’s grim expression. ‘What is it, Ralph?’

  ‘Earl Edmund has returned from France.’

  Thomas of Lancaster stood at the mention of his father.

  ‘King Philippe has gone back on his word and confiscated Gascony. He has withdrawn the invitation to King Edward to seal the peace agreement and has poured an army into the duchy.’ The knight glanced around at the silent men in the chamber. ‘It is a declaration of war.’

  23

  Gone were the dancers and the music, the silver platters piled with delicacies and the jugs of wine. Gone too was the gaiety. All that remained of the feast was a lingering smell of burned meat and a few crushed rose petals, missed by the servants’ brooms. The great hall was filled with men, their voices raised not in song or laughter, but in anger. The spring parliament the king had summoned to discuss his hopes for the liberation of the Holy Land had been taken over by the matter of France. King Philippe himself had recently pledged his support for a new crusade and had built a fleet of ships for the move east. Now, it seemed, those ships were turned towards England.

  King Edward was on the dais above the assembly of nobles, his hands curled around the arms of his throne. He wore his fifty-five years heavily this morning, the pallid light filtering through the hall’s high windows turning his hair to coarse silver and highlighting the droop of his eye, the defect inherited from his father. John de Warenne and Anthony Bek had joined the king on the platform along with several black-robed clerks. The rest of the company were packed in on benches that faced the throne, their heads turned towards the Seneschal of Gascony, who was speaking.

  ‘After the order came from England that we were to su
rrender the towns temporarily, we waited for King Philippe’s men to arrive and take our posts.’ The seneschal looked up at Edward. ‘But it wasn’t just officials who came, my lord. It was an army.’ His voice strengthened with feeling. ‘They told us that Philippe had declared the duchy forfeit and he was now its ruler. The knights that poured into Bordeaux and the Agenais, Bayonne and Blaye told our men the same thing. They said Gascony was no longer English territory and that if we ever returned the soil would run with English blood.’

  ‘How could this have happened?’ said the Earl of Arundel, rising as the seneschal finished speaking. ‘My lord,’ he said, facing Edward, ‘none here could have known that King Philippe had no intention of returning Gascony to you after its surrender, or that the peace agreement and marriage settlement were nothing but ruses intended to force you to yield the duchy without a struggle. But what I cannot comprehend is how his lies were so readily believed?’ He looked around the hall. ‘And why none of us was consulted on the terms Earl Edmund delivered from Paris? I think I speak for many when I say we would have strongly urged the sealing of the peace agreement before the duchy was ceded.’

  Robert, some distance back, craned his head to look at the Earl of Lancaster, seated in silence on one of the benches. He had initially been surprised to see the king’s brother on the floor with the barons and knights, rather than on the dais, but it seemed this was perhaps punishment for Earl Edmund’s handling of the negotiations in Paris, which had ended in this disaster. If it had been Edward’s intention to make an example of his younger brother, however, it didn’t seem to have worked, for few of the noblemen present were blaming the withdrawn Earl of Lancaster, all their anger instead directed to the throne.

  ‘The king did consult,’ responded John de Warenne roughly, ‘with his officials.’

  Warenne, his flint-grey hair cropped brutally close to his head and his stare bellicose, seemed more aggressive than Robert remembered. He wondered if the change in the earl’s character might be due to the recent death of his daughter, John Balliol’s wife.