Insurrection: Renegade [02] Page 5

  ‘And then?’ Edward prompted.

  Before Robert could reply, Murtough’s voice cut across them. ‘Here.’

  Heading to him, the men gathered around a lichen-stained grave slab, lying horizontally on top of four stone lintels embedded in the soil. It was decorated with an ornately carved cross, the spirals of knot-work entwined with beasts and birds. Murtough’s brethren bent to help him as he crouched and placed his hands on the slab’s sides. Niall added his strength to theirs and, between them, the four men pushed it from the top of the grave. Stone ground on stone. In the dark hollow that appeared beneath, lined with the lintel slabs, Robert saw a grinning skull, laced with hair. The flesh had long been ravaged, the clothing reduced to threads. As his eyes drifted down the skeleton’s length, he realised there was something lying alongside the corpse, wrapped in cloth.

  Relief was plain in Murtough’s scarred face. ‘Praise God,’ he muttered, sitting back on his heels.

  Robert reached in and grasped it, feeling a solid shape within the folds of material. The cloth had once been white, but after almost two years in the grave it was green with mould. A fat earthworm twisted from the folds. The monks were sombre as they watched him take the staff, but made no move to stop him. This was his burden now. Carefully, he laid it on the grave slab and pulled back the soiled covering. In the bloody dawn, the gold and gems that encrusted the staff’s sheath glittered. Robert felt a hot rush of triumph. The final relic named in the Last Prophecy – the one King Edward needed to fulfil his vision of a kingdom united beneath him – was in his hands.

  As Robert stared at the golden crosier, Murtough’s question back in Donough’s hall came to him.

  And what about you, Earl Robert? Do you believe in Merlin’s prophecy?

  He had spent two years in Edward’s company, one of the Knights of the Dragon, whose purpose was to aid the king in retrieving the relics. While many of those who had once been his friends accepted the truth of Merlin’s prophecy and were determined to prevent the ruin of Britain foreseen in it, he himself had not been able to believe. No matter the rewards, the glory and camaraderie he had found in the king’s service, he had never been able to dismiss the fact that if the four treasures were gathered under one man, who would rule all of Britain, it would render the Bruce claim to the throne of Scotland meaningless. In furthering Edward’s ambition, he denied his own and failed in his promise to his grandfather that he would uphold their family’s right. In the end, this truth had twisted inside him, turning him from Edward’s cause.

  Oath-breaker, they had called him. Traitor.

  But despite his unwillingness to believe, Robert could not deny the passage in the Last Prophecy that had rightly predicted King Alexander’s death.

  When the last King of Albany dies without issue

  The kingdom will be thrown into disarray.

  And the sons of Brutus will mourn that day

  The one of the great name.

  Alexander had plunged from the cliffs on a storm-tossed night on the road to Kinghorn. They found him next morning, his neck broken and his horse dead beside him. His granddaughter and heir, an infant in the court of the King of Norway, sailed to Scotland to take her place as queen, but perished on the voyage from eating rotten food. After that the crown had gone, on Edward’s choosing, to John Balliol; not a king as it turned out, but a dog on the English king’s leash. Balliol’s attempt at rebellion had been a failure, the English storming across the border and crushing the uprising in a matter of months. Edward, triumphant in his conquest of Scotland, had broken the great seal of the kingdom and sent Balliol, cowed and humiliated, to the Tower of London. Disaster followed disaster.

  Now, with the power to prevent Edward from fulfilling his ambition in his hands, Robert wondered. Did he doom Britain by this action? Would those days of ruin prophesied by Merlin now come upon them all?

  Seeing his brothers and the monks looking at him, Robert bound the staff tightly in its mildewed cloth. He had his own destiny to fulfil. Scotland must be free of subjugation to the English crown, no matter the cost. Where John Balliol had failed, he would triumph. Balliol, now in papal custody in France, might still be the rightful king in the eyes of many Scots, but to the Bruce family he had only ever been a puppet. Robert’s ancestor, the great Malcolm Canmore, had overthrown his rival, Macbeth, and had taken the throne. Now, God willing, he would do the same. Pride and blood demanded it.

  ‘It was there?’ called Cormac, as the company made their way back. When Robert raised the staff in answer, his foster-brother grinned. ‘I would give my horse and sword to see Ulster’s face when his men tell him it was gone. Serve the bastard right for burning my father’s hall.’

  Robert climbed into the boat with the others, Christopher and Cormac pushing them off before leaping in behind. As they slipped out into the water, a shadow passed over them. Robert looked into the lightening sky to see the white fan feathers of a sea eagle, its wings, eight feet across, mirrored in the lough as it swooped low, heading for the north shore. In the distance, a cloud of birds rose from the trees on the banks. Robert watched the eagle’s retreating form, thinking the predator must have disturbed them. Then, faint and far off, he heard the baying of a hound.

  Chapter 5

  Caerlaverock, Scotland, 1301 AD

  As Edward approached his pavilion, the guards opened the flaps. The king swept inside, his mailed boots crushing the carpet of meadowsweet, its perfume a relief from the reek of smoke and dung that clogged the camp. Anthony Bek followed. Clad in a polished mail coat with a broadsword at his hip, the burly Bishop of Durham could easily have been taken for a knight, if not for his tonsure and the ecclesiastical robes he wore over the armour. Robert Winchelsea entered behind them, squeezing his frame through the narrow opening. After the Archbishop of Canterbury came four clerics and the two foreigners in scarlet robes and jewelled hats. When the company had dismounted to greet him, Edward’s suspicions had been confirmed. The two men were official papal messengers, sent by Pope Boniface.

  ‘Wine and food for my guests,’ Edward ordered the servants waiting in the interior. Two disappeared through curtains at the back of the pavilion, while the others hastened to rearrange furniture for the visitors. ‘Sit,’ Edward told them, ignoring the high-backed cushioned chair one of his pages moved out for him. He waited as the two papal messengers and the archbishop sat, leaving the clerics to hover behind. Bek wedged himself into a corner, his eyes on Winchelsea.

  Winchelsea frowned at the stool that was offered to him when the king remained standing. He looked for a moment as if he wouldn’t accept it, but under Edward’s unyielding gaze he did so. ‘And how is the young queen, my lord? I hear she gave birth to a boy.’ Winchelsea’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Time passes fast. I can scarcely believe it was little over two years ago that I married you both at Canterbury.’

  ‘Lady Marguerite and my son are in good humour at York,’ Edward replied. ‘But I somehow doubt you made the long journey to the front line of my war for the purpose of enquiring about my wife’s health. Let us dispense with the pleasantries, your grace. They do not suit us. Why have you come?’

  The smile slipped easily from Winchelsea’s face, his broad shoulders hunching as he leaned forward, fixed on the king. ‘My esteemed colleagues here arrived in England two months ago. When they discovered you had left on campaign they came to me at Canterbury. I volunteered to escort them to your presence. I judged the message they bore important enough not to wait for your return.’

  ‘How charitable of you, your grace.’

  The archbishop ignored the king’s ominous tone. As the servants entered, bearing jugs of wine and platters of bread, cured meat and pungent yellow cheese, Winchelsea nodded to one of the scarlet-robed messengers. The man stood and drew a scroll from the leather bag he carried. Bek came forward to take it, disregarding the goblet of wine a page tried to pass to him.

  Edward noted the large papal seal attached to the parchment as th
e Bishop of Durham opened the scroll. The hush inside was filled by the muted din of the camp outside, over which the sound of splintering stone echoed as the siege engines continued to batter Caerlaverock’s walls. Winchelsea accepted the proffered wine, grasping the silver goblet in his fist. He was the only man who did, the servants backing away to the sides of the tent, bearing the untouched platters of food.

  Finally, Bek finished reading and looked up at the king. ‘The pope, my lord, demands that you cease all hostilities against Scotland, which his holiness describes as a daughter of the Holy See.’

  With these words, Edward understood why Winchelsea had come all the way to his siege lines to deliver a simple message. The man had been vocal about the war since his election to the archbishopric in 1295, on the eve of the first invasion of Scotland. That invasion had been an unqualified success. Within months, John Balliol, the man Edward had set upon the throne after King Alexander’s death and who had rebelled, was deposed and imprisoned in the Tower, the kingdom under Edward’s command. But it had been a victory short-lived, for a year later William Wallace had risen to lead the Scots in insurrection. His treasury drained by wars in Wales and Gascony, Edward had been forced to ask the Church for funds to finance his struggle against the rebels. It was Winchelsea who stood against him, refusing to submit to his demands. In retaliation Edward outlawed the clergy and sent his knights to seize their goods and property, but Winchelsea remained firm in the face of the harsh measures. A test of faith, he had called it.

  Since that time, Edward and the archbishop had slipped into an uneasy truce, but it was clear, by the way he had seized upon this opportunity, that Winchelsea had not abandoned his stance.

  ‘Why now?’ Edward’s voice was low, anger etched in his face. ‘Why does Rome intervene after five years?’

  The papal messenger who had given the order to Bek answered. ‘My lord king, while in Paris, Sir William Wallace gained much support from the King of France, who recommended him to his holiness. He has since visited the papal curia and been welcomed by—’

  ‘Sir William?’ Edward spat the title across the explanation, his grey eyes blazing. ‘I do not care whose blade or arse that brigand kissed to acquire that honour, he is as noble as a butcher’s hound! He is a felon. An outlaw. Why, in Christ’s name, is he being welcomed at the papal court?’ The king wheeled away, thinking furiously, as the papal messenger turned uncertainly to Winchelsea. So, Philippe was interfering again, was he? He had thought the trouble with his cousin was on the way to being finished. The war over Gascony had ended, he had married Philippe’s sister and his son was due to marry the king’s daughter. After years of conflict, England and France had agreed a truce and Edward was hopeful that his rich French duchy would soon be back in his possession. Now, this.

  ‘Wallace has garnered much sympathy for his cause at the papal curia,’ said Winchelsea, rising to draw the king’s attention. ‘I strongly advise you to heed the order, my lord. The truce with France, mediated by his holiness, is still in its infant stages. Your son is yet to marry Lady Isabella and the treaty that will restore the Duchy of Gascony to you and your heirs has not been formally ratified.’ Winchelsea played the statesman skilfully, his tone firm, but reasoned. ‘Enter into negotiations with the Scots, my lord. Obey the papal order and end the war. Do not make an enemy of Pope Boniface. He is not a forgiving man.’

  Edward didn’t look at the archbishop, but the man’s words, full of carefully nuanced threats, burned in him. After two years in England, during which time he never once lost sight of his aim, he had led his men north to finish what he started. John Balliol might be languishing in papal custody in France – his release from the Tower part of the deal Edward had brokered with the pope over Gascony – Wallace might be abroad and Robert Bruce missing. But that hadn’t stopped the Scots continuing the insurrection begun by those three men. Edward would not stop until the entire kingdom was under his control. Neither would he rest, nay sleep, until Wallace was swinging from a gibbet and Bruce – well, he had other plans for that renegade.

  ‘We should discuss this in private, my lord,’ intervened Bek. ‘We can speak again on the morrow,’ he added to Winchelsea.

  Before Edward could respond, the tent flaps opened and Humphrey de Bohun appeared, his broad face flushed with triumph. ‘My lord, Caerlaverock’s garrison has surrendered. The castle is ours.’

  The king stared at the young commander, realising that he could no longer hear the crashing of stones. ‘Bishop Bek, draft a response that these men will take back to Rome with them tomorrow. In it you will defend my policies in Scotland and you will explain to his holiness that I have a right to subdue a people who owe me their allegiance and yet rise in rebellion against me. I set John Balliol upon the throne and he paid me homage as a vassal, accepting my right as his superior. It was his breaking of that oath and his alliance of swords with France that began this war.’ Edward’s gaze came to rest on Winchelsea. ‘I will bring Scotland under my dominion, your grace, and deal with every treacherous son of a bitch who defies my will, if it takes the last breath in my body.’

  Chapter 6

  Lough Luioch, Ireland, 1301 AD

  Robert entered the clearing several strides ahead of the rest of the company, the staff grasped in his fist. During their passage across the lough, the sky had lightened to an ashen grey, but beneath the tangled canopy of oak and rowan it was still dark.

  Alexander Seton looked up sharply as Robert emerged through the undergrowth. Beside him, Uathach raised her head from her paws with a whine at the sight of her master. ‘You have it?’ Alexander stood to greet him, his eyes going to the cloth-wrapped object in Robert’s hand.

  Ignoring Uathach, who trotted over to nose at his palm, Robert gestured to Nes and the other squires, who had set about making a temporary camp in the glade. Blankets and cloaks had been hung from branches to air and a small fire had been lit, the smoke twisting up through the boughs. ‘Pack up. We’re leaving.’

  As the squires hastened to obey, collecting the gear and bags of provisions, Alexander caught Robert’s arm. ‘What is it?’

  ‘He heard a hound,’ said Edward, hoisting his iron-embossed shield over his shoulder by its strap.

  Christopher and Niall were helping the squires sling bags over the backs of the four pack-horses, while Cormac scuffed soil on to the fire with the edge of his boot.

  Robert glanced irritably at Edward as Nes handed him Fleet’s reins. ‘You heard it too, brother.’

  ‘It was a farmer’s dog most likely. We passed a few farmsteads yesterday.’

  ‘That was miles back,’ Robert said. ‘This was close.’

  Thomas joined them. His fair hair curled around his brow, dampened by the moist morning air. ‘We didn’t hear anything.’ He nodded at Uathach and the three other hounds. ‘The dogs would have alerted us, surely?’

  Robert took in their expressions – a mix of concern and disparagement. After a pause, he shook his head. ‘You’re right, it’s probably nothing, but I don’t want to linger here any more than I have to. We have a long journey ahead of us and precious cargo.’

  Jabbing his boot into the stirrup, Robert swung up into the saddle. Shifting his filigreed scabbard, he loosened the belt a notch, enough to wedge the staff through, so it was held against him alongside his broadsword. He smiled to himself, grimly satisfied. Once back in Scotland he would offer it to Edward in return for the Stone of Destiny, which lay entombed in a coronation chair in Westminster Abbey, a symbol of England’s dominion; its weight in guilt around his neck. And if the king refused? Well, Robert would have his last relic and Edward would have failed in the eyes of his faithful followers.

  After Nes had tightened Fleet’s girth and tethered Uathach to the crupper, Robert walked his horse to the edge of the glade. The others followed, the monks on their sturdy palfreys, the squires on rouncies, leading the pack-horses, and his brothers and the Setons on coursers. Together, they made their way out of the clearing, t
he vestiges of smoke from the campfire drifting in their wake.

  There was no track to follow, except for the natural lines made by trees and the going was slow. As a grey light revealed the way ahead, Robert picked out the deep pocks the hooves of their horses had made yesterday. Satisfied they were headed in the right direction, he let Fleet be his guide, allowing the horse to find the best paths through the boggy ground. The land rose steadily, until he glimpsed the lough stretching away behind him, glass-smooth, the distant isle of Ibracense breaking the surface. They hadn’t gone more than a mile, when Uathach began to growl.

  Robert looked round to see the bitch straining on her leash, ears flat against her head. Pulling Fleet to a halt, he gave a whistle, but Uathach didn’t heed it. Her gaze was fixed on a high ridge to their left, where the trees marched up, thinning as they neared the crest.

  ‘What has she smelled?’ called Cormac, turning in his saddle. ‘A coney?’

  Suddenly, Uathach sprang forward, the leash snapping tight. At the same time, the other hounds began barking harshly, all of them fixed on the ridge. The tension in Robert broke in a rush of anticipation. ‘To me!’ he roared, pulling his sword from its scabbard.

  Over the ridge came an answering cry. Figures appeared on the bank – more than thirty men. Some were mounted, leaning back in their saddles as they spurred their horses down the slope. Others sprinted in their wake, wielding spears and daggers. Dogs ran with them, barking fiercely. By their mail coats and crested helms, and the great swords in their hands, the riders were knights. English knights. Each wore a red band of cloth around his upper arm. Robert had a second to take this in, then he was pricking his spurs into Fleet’s sides, yelling at his men to follow as he plunged through the trees. His company of eighteen, three of whom were monks, was outnumbered and outmatched. The woods filled with the rumble of hooves as his men wheeled their horses around and charged behind him. Dimly, he heard a man’s cry echo at his back as the trees closed around him.