Kingdom: Insurrection Trilogy Book 3 Page 31

  A destrier in front of Robert, skewered by two spears, was struggling to free itself, teeth gnashing, eyes rolling white. The two Islesmen holding the spears, fought to keep their balance as the beast reared up, blood streaming from its punctured neck. Robert lunged between them, plunging his sword into the thigh of the knight astride it, clad in the colours of Pembroke. The man’s sharp cry was muffled by his helm as the sword pierced his mail. Robert tugged the blade free, hoisting his shield as the knight brought his sword swinging down at him. The blade smacked hard against the wood. Suddenly, the destrier collapsed, one of the spears snapping off in its neck. The knight toppled sideways. As he hung there for a moment, snared by the stirrup, Robert twisted his wrist and drove his blade through the slit in the man’s helm. Blood erupted. The knight slid from the saddle, disappearing among a whirl of trappers and trampling legs.

  All along the front lines horses bucked and thrashed, caught in the crush as the Scots pressed forward, stabbing with their spears, or hacking and chopping at the writhing barrier of beasts and men. Aymer de Valence’s banner was lifted above the turmoil. Some English knights attempted to turn and break out of the deadlock, but found themselves hemmed in by those who had ridden in behind, channelled by the ditches. Others, on the edges, were knocked or jostled into the trenches. Horses tumbled into the furrows, riders crying out as they went down under the weight of their armoured steeds.

  Robert yelled a command and, now, men clutching dirks, many of them galloglass, rushed between the spearmen and ducked in under the legs of the horses. With swift, brutal movements, they slit open the animals’ stomachs. As the beasts buckled, entrails spilling, knights were dragged from saddles, their helms torn off like shells, the Scots eager to get at the vulnerable flesh beneath. The air was rent with screams and the thick squelch of mud, soaked in blood, urine and dung as horses voided their bowels in pain and terror. A sour stink choked the air. Men sweated and groaned, gasping as they pressed against one another in a vile orgy of death.

  Even though their lines had withstood the ferocity of the first charge, the Scots, many of whom were more exposed than the mailed knights, weren’t spared the slaughter. A squire from Carrick, fighting beside Robert, caught the hoof of a destrier in his face that caved in his jaw. Nearby, one of the galloglass had his head half severed by a knight’s sweeping blade. His body remained upright, held by the crush, blood spewing in a hot red rain over his comrades. Others, trapped under collapsing horses, slowly suffocated as they were ground into the mud. Robert saw his brother only narrowly avoid a vicious strike from a knight in the Pembroke colours. Edward retaliated, roaring as he jammed his blade into the knight’s side, puncturing mail and driving the broken rings into the man’s flesh.

  The bulk of the English infantry, led by small contingents of cavalry, had split off in two divisions to attempt to outflank the Scots, but both companies found themselves caught in the mire that stretched away to either side of the meadow. Men, struggling in the sucking mud, fought their way back to hard ground as the horns blew, calling them to tackle the first of the ditches, beyond which the Scots were arrayed. Breathing hard through his ventail, Robert heard the horns blowing and saw the infantry approaching the trench. Twisting to Nes, he yelled an instruction. The knight, still gripping the royal banner, began waving it back and forth, the yellow cloth streaming in the air above the heads of the front lines, sending the signal to those behind.

  Seeing the flag waving wildly, the first row of Scots along the edge of the ditch crouched. Behind them archers rose, almost a hundred of them, bows primed. Many were young men from Carrick and the Isles, using their hunting bows, but some were veteran bowmen from Selkirk, who had served under William Wallace. All at once, they let fly a volley of arrows across the ditch, into the ranks of the infantry. Men collapsed, struck by the missiles, others threw themselves to the ground. As the foot soldiers picked themselves up and came on, another volley tore through them.

  The horns were blowing frantically now among the ranks of the English cavalry. More horses and men were going down, the long axes of the galloglass rising and falling like scythes through corn. In the turmoil, Aymer de Valence’s banner-bearer was pulled from his horse and set upon by three of Angus MacDonald’s men.

  As the blue and white striped standard disappeared, sagging down between the horses, Robert lifted his head and bellowed, ‘On them! On them now!’

  The Scots pressed forward hard, scrabbling over the growing wall of fallen horses and men to get at those behind. The English line began to fall apart. Those trapped in the mêlée, their mounts at the mercy of the ruthless galloglass, urged their horses around and spurred them through the breaks now appearing in the crowd. Others, seeing their comrades bearing down on them, wheeled their mounts out of their path. More horses tumbled into the ditch in the blind chaos of the retreat.

  Aymer de Valence was bellowing orders, trying to pull his men back to form up again and make another charge, but his banner had gone and it was hard for his knights, encased in their great helms, to pick their commander out of the mayhem. Now, the infantry, seeing the bulk of the cavalry riding towards them, with the Scots pressing in behind, began to falter. A few turned and ran back down the slope, thinking a general retreat had been sounded. Soon, more went with them, turning and fleeing. And, all at once, it became an avalanche.

  The Scots sent up a roar that resounded across the hillside as they saw the English begin to rout, the cavalry riding pell-mell down the meadow, knocking aside their own foot soldiers in their haste. Robert led his army in their wake, shouting himself raw, sword aloft, slick with the blood of Aymer’s knights. At last, the enemy had shown him their backs. At last, he had it – vengeance for Methven.

  Burstwick Manor, England, 1307 AD

  The key clicked in the lock. Elizabeth sat on the edge of the bed, toying with the ivory cross around her neck. As the door opened, she steeled herself to look up, not daring to hope, but unable to help herself. Maud entered, bearing a tray. The maid’s face, as pale as uncooked dough, was as grim as ever. Elizabeth’s hope was already sinking, but then she saw another woman following Maud. Her breath caught in her throat, until she realised she didn’t know this second figure: an elderly woman with a pinched face and down-turned mouth.

  Every day, after she had given Lucy her ring and the message, Elizabeth had tried to catch the young woman’s eye as she delivered her food, hoping to see some sign that Lucy had done as she had bid. But the maid remained silent, refusing to meet her gaze. Then, nine days ago, she stopped coming altogether. Elizabeth tentatively asked Maud where Lucy had gone, but the woman hadn’t answered. She tried to tell herself Lucy’s son was ill again and she had been allowed home to tend to him, but as the days passed this had been replaced with other more tormenting imaginings – the message to her father fluttering on a midden heap and her wedding ring adorning Lucy’s hand.

  As Maud set down the tray, the new maid picked up the empty plate from the night before. The old woman glanced furtively, curiously, at the royal prisoner, sitting stiffly on the bed, before hurrying out, followed by Maud. Elizabeth watched them go. Just before the door was closed, she caught Maud’s eye. The pasty-faced woman smiled, showing a mouthful of yellow teeth. Elizabeth started. She had never seen this expression on Maud’s face. What had made her flinch, however, was not the smile, but the spitefulness behind it.

  Elizabeth didn’t know what it meant until she went to her tray. There, next to a bowl of grease-filmed stew, was a crumpled piece of linen. Picking it up, she opened it with shaking fingers to see a message in blue thread: her own words stitched in haste and hope, returned to her.

  Chapter 29

  Barra, Scotland, 1307 AD

  The rhythm of drums filled the air, a joyous heartbeat pulsing beneath the wild shouts and laughter. Bright fires burned all around the settlement, glowing in the faces of the men and women, who had drunk and danced and feasted their way through this midsummer’s eve. Robert sat o
n a stool, nursing his wine and watching his men celebrate.

  ‘Long live King Robert! Bane of the English!’ roared Gilbert de la Hay, over the noise of the drums and the crowd. More calls echoed his and cups were lifted to the sky.

  Robert raised his goblet to the lord and smiled.

  Laughing, his face flushed with drink, Gilbert grabbed the hands of two young women and began dancing a boisterous jig. Others quickly joined in. Neil Campbell and Malcolm of Lennox looked over, grinning at Gilbert’s enthusiasm. Nes had fallen asleep, slumped against Cormac’s shoulder, the Irishman engaged in an animated debate with two galloglass. Brigid was sitting by one of the fires with some of the other women from the settlement, a soft smile on her face as she watched Elena race with her friends among the adults, skirts flying. Edward stepped aside good-naturedly as the band of children rushed past, then returned to his conversation with James Douglas. Another figure was with them, sipping nervously at his wine, his sandy hair the colour of straw in the firelight.

  Thomas Randolph, under guard since he’d been taken at Glen Trool, had pleaded for an audience with Robert the night after the confrontation at Loudoun Hill. When the young man had gone down on his knees, begging his forgiveness, Robert had coolly asked his nephew why he’d changed in his opinion of him. Expecting the reason to be his triumph in the battle, he was surprised to hear Thomas say he’d been moved by the depth of the loyalty and love he had seen shown to Robert by his men. A week later, as they sailed from Scotland’s shores, heading back to the Isles to regroup and gather more supplies, Robert had accepted his nephew’s oath of fealty, along with pledges from more men who had flocked to his banner from across Carrick and Ayr, after news of his victory against Aymer de Valence spread throughout the earldom. Some had begun calling him a new King Arthur.

  Robert’s gaze moved to Lachlan, standing with his brother, Ruarie, and a group of their men. Catching his eye, Lachlan inclined his head, his crooked mouth twisting in a smile. With the revenues from Carrick, Robert had been able to pay the captain for his service; his fidelity secured. No longer was he treated as a foreigner in these Isles. He was their king and all due respect was paid to him. As the dancers whirled apart, James Stewart appeared briefly in the crowd. The high steward had been waiting on Barra when Robert returned, with fifteen ships filled with tenants from across his lands, come at his call to arms. Along with the new recruits, the galloglass and Angus MacDonald’s men from Islay, Robert now had an army greater than the force he had commanded at Methven.

  The war was far from over. King Edward and his men would retaliate, of that he had no doubt. Aymer, although beaten in battle, had not been crushed and remained in strength in Ayr. Worse, many of Robert’s countrymen still stood against him, refusing to acknowledge his kingship. John MacDougall, Lord of Argyll, responsible for the attack that split Robert’s forces in Lorn, dominated a swathe of the west coast with his army and his galleys, his blood-oath against the murderer of his cousin unfulfilled. There were rumours the Black Comyn had returned to the Comyn heartlands in the north-east – to Buchan and Badenoch – mustering more men for the fight, and Dungal MacDouall, the killer of Lord Donough, who had delivered Thomas and Alexander to King Edward, remained at large. No, the war wasn’t over, and Robert knew he would soon have to abandon the safety of these Isles if he had any hope of securing his reign. But, for tonight at least, he could let his people celebrate.

  His eyes moved across them – earls and lords, knights and mercenaries, blacksmiths, fishermen, cowherds, midwives and ale wives – rejoicing as one. He had brought these men and women together, here on this tiny island in the middle of the Northern Ocean. Now, he must build them a kingdom.

  Feeling someone move up beside him, Robert saw Christiana approaching. Behind her, his royal standard fluttered in the cool night breeze.

  She offered up the glazed jug she held. ‘Some more wine, my lord?’

  Robert frowned into his empty goblet. He shook his head. ‘I am done, my lady.’

  Christiana smiled. ‘Perhaps a walk?’ Setting the jug down on the grass, she headed for the path that led out of the settlement.

  Robert stared after her for a moment, then rose and followed, down the track towards the beach.

  The midnight sky was a pale, pearlescent blue. Christiana’s grey gown was gauzy in the half-light, slipping off one shoulder as she walked, her bare feet moving lightly through the sand. Her hair was piled up with silver pins and Robert’s eyes lingered on the long curve of her neck, left bare. Soon, the sounds of revelry faded behind them and the rushing of the waves could be heard ahead. The grasses of the machair whispered as they made their way down on to the beach, past the glistening webs of nets and the dark hulks of fishing boats.

  Christiana stood on the shore, looking out to sea, where the waves were laced with foam. ‘You always look alone, my lord, even in a crowd.’ Her voice was soft, thoughtful.

  Robert looked at her, but she didn’t meet his eyes. ‘The curse of a king, perhaps.’ When she didn’t answer he followed her gaze out to sea. He could taste the salt of the breaking waves. ‘As eldest son and heir to a throne you carry a burden of duty that never leaves you. It sets you apart from other men.’ He shook his head, self-conscious. ‘Unless you have borne it you cannot know what it is like.’ Then, seeing her knowing smile, he laughed. ‘Forgive me, my lady. I forgot to whom I was speaking.’

  He closed his eyes, breathing in the sea air, content to be alone with her. After a moment, he felt Christiana’s hand thread through his. Her fingers were cold. Robert’s eyes remained closed, but now he was alert and fully aware of her presence as she moved in front of him. He felt her breath on his face, then her lips on his. The first kiss was soft, questioning. The second was demanding, her other hand coming up to grasp the back of his neck. His head swam with wine and the blood that raced through him as she opened her mouth to wetness, into which he sank his own. Desire flamed in him, a hotter, more urgent passion than he’d ever felt. Clutching her back, he forced her against him, bending to kiss her neck, now running his tongue up the hot curve of her skin, tasting wood-smoke and sweat. A sigh rushed from her lips.

  At a stifled laugh somewhere nearby, Robert broke from her, aching. Two figures were lying entwined, a short distance up the beach. Christiana grasped his hand and led him back towards the track, their feet sinking in the sand.

  Robert awoke to the milky light of dawn seeping through the shutters. Turning over in the bed, he saw Christiana lying beside him, her back to him. Her hair tumbled across the pillow. Reaching out, he took a strand of it between his fingers, twisting it gently to see its many colours – chestnut and auburn, copper and gold. For a moment, he thought of Elizabeth and a shadow passed across him, then Christiana stirred, the cover slipping down to her waist. His eyes travelled the smooth arc of her body, the swell of her hip, the light cast on her pale skin. He felt a spasm of desire, wanting to do what he had done to her last night here in the sober dawn where he could see her. But as he moved to touch her, there was a knock at the door.

  Rising from the bed, he snatched his robe from the floor and pulled it over his nakedness. Opening the door, he saw Edward was outside. Beyond, the debris of the night’s celebrations littered the settlement. Men slept, sprawled on the grass, shattered jugs and empty goblets strewn around them. Smells of stale smoke and vomit soured the crisp morning air. A few people were awake, stoking fires and taking buckets down to the stream for water.

  ‘What is it?’ Robert asked, seeing his brother’s gaze flick past him, into the room where Christiana slept.

  ‘Alexander Seton has returned. He has a message from Humphrey de Bohun.’

  Lanercost Priory, England, 1307 AD

  King Edward declined the hands of his pages as they reached out to help him rise. His legs shook beneath him and he had to grasp the bedpost. Sweat broke out all over his body, seeping through the freshly laundered shirt and hose his servants had dressed him in. His scarlet surcoat, wh
ich they had pulled gently over his underclothes, felt uncommonly thick. He had caught the worried glances exchanged by his pages on seeing how loose the garment had become on his gaunt frame. The belt they had looped around his waist, drawing in the folds of scarlet cloth, wrinkling the snarling faces of the three golden lions, had been punctured with two new holes by his tailor.

  As one of his men came forward, holding his scarlet cloak, trimmed with ermine, Edward’s eyes lingered on the worn creases in the leather further along the belt, from a time when his waist had been thick with muscle. He was vanishing. The thought made him clench his teeth against the discomfort as his page placed the heavy mantle around his shoulders. Across the chamber, Nicholas Tingewick stood watching, wringing his long-fingered hands. On the table beside the physician were his bowls and instruments, phials of ointment, herbs and leeches. Nicholas had come to make one last plea for him to reconsider, but Edward had rejected his counsel. He was finished with potions and prayers, done with bloodletting and bed-rest.

  Steeling himself, he let go of the bedpost and crossed the room, light-headed and unsteady. The locked chest he kept at the end of his bed was gone, packed on a cart along with the rest of his belongings. The only things left in the chamber were the bed and his desk. As he shambled past the desk, his pages clustering nervously at his back, Edward’s eyes alighted on one of the letters strewn on its surface, with the seal of Aymer de Valence attached. The parchment’s yellowed edges had curled, dampened by the sweat of his fingers. The letter had come four weeks ago, the earl informing him of a skirmish against the forces of Robert Bruce at a place called Loudoun Hill. The gist of the battle was vague, Aymer glossing over his failure to capture the rebel king and speaking of an unfortunate and unavoidable loss of men, before writing at length on his renewed, unquestionable determination to crush their Scottish foe. But the earl’s report wasn’t the only one Edward had received.