Insurrection (17 page)

Bishop Navre of Bergen sat hunched at the stern, sweating in his furs. It was mild for September, even out on the open water, although when the sun set and he was forced to bed down with the rest of the crew under the sail, he knew he would be glad of the skins. Four and a half days out from the coast of Norway and still he felt unsettled, the endless surge and swell of blue making his head swim and turning his legs to water. Gazing down the length of the vessel, past the oarsmen who lined the benches, Navre tried to catch a glimpse of the captain, keen to know when the man thought they might arrive at Orkney. He had been told by King Eric that the journey to the Norwegian islands shouldn’t take longer than five days with a fair wind, but the breeze had hardly filled the sail since they left Bergen and they had been forced to rely for the most part on the oarsmen.

The bishop reclined, unable to see the captain past the white swoop of sail that filled his view at mid-ship and unwilling to make the precarious journey to the prow, over the ribs of timbers and the limbs and shields of so many men. The longship, called
Ormen Lange
in the tongue of his people,
Great Serpent
, was crowded, not only with crewmen, but with Scottish and English knights who had arrived at the Norwegian court some weeks apart, both parties insisting on escorting their precious cargo. The bishop had derived some satisfaction from King Eric’s blunt dismissal of a galley sent by Edward of England, filled with gifts for the girl. The Scots might be gaining a queen and the English a wife for their future king, but she would be delivered to them in a Norwegian vessel in honour of her father and the kingdom into which she had been born. It was only twenty-seven years since Norse defeat at the Battle of Largs and twenty-four since the signing of the Treaty of Perth, by which the Western Isles and Man had been ceded to the Scots. For a people who had been masters of the northern seas for centuries this journey in the fearsome dragon-stemmed ship signalled the ending of an age and a last, proud act of defiance.

Hearing a girl’s laughter coming from the wooden structure built against the stern, Navre looked round. The structure wasn’t much more than a hut, with room enough for a child and one adult inside, but it had been beautifully fashioned from yew, with a little arched door and a slanting roof. The longship had no decks for shelter and the king had wanted his daughter to travel in comfort. The door opened and Margaret bobbed out with a fistful of gingerbread. There were crumbs around her mouth. She smiled at the bishop, then climbed on to a bench to peer over the gunwales at the water. He went to rise, anxious that the child was leaning so far out, but her maid was already ducking out of the shelter and cautioning her down. He sat back as Margaret pointed out a fish with an excited laugh. He was glad to see her joy, for she had wept bitterly as they had taken her away from her father and escorted her on to the ship. Navre’s smile faded as he thought again of what this child, whom he had known since birth, was travelling towards. Right now, the lords of Scotland would be gathering at Scone, site of the ancient place of enthronement. Seven years old and the hopes of a kingdom were on her shoulders.

As the child crossed to the port side to look out over the water, the bishop caught a strong whiff of gingerbread. His stomach churned. ‘You shouldn’t let her have any more,’ he told the maid. ‘She’ll make herself ill.’

‘His lordship said—’

‘I know what her father said,’ Navre cut across the woman. ‘He would have said anything to make her happy. But a chest full of sweetmeats isn’t going to do that.’ The bishop watched queasily as the girl pushed the last of the gingerbread into her mouth. Although King Eric had sent away the English ship he had accepted the gifts the Scots had brought the child in honour of her dead mother, daughter of the late King Alexander.

‘When will we get to Orkney?’ asked Margaret, sitting beside him and wiping the crumbs from her dress.

‘Soon, child.’

As Margaret hummed a tune they had heard the oarsmen singing, the bishop put his head back and closed his eyes, the last of the sun warming his face.

Navre came awake, feeling someone’s hand on his arm. Opening his eyes groggily, the bishop saw the maid staring down at him. Behind her, the sky was a softly undulating sheet of white. He realised, after a second, that the sail had been drawn down over the vessel for the evening and the longship was now rocking at anchor in a blue twilight. ‘What is it?’ he said, sitting up with a groan. His neck ached from the awkward position he had slept in.

‘Please come, your grace.’

Navre rose unsteadily and followed the maid to the shelter. He ducked and forced his bulky frame through the narrow entrance. The smell of sickness struck him first, bitter in his throat. Margaret was curled on her fur-lined pallet, her face sallow in the glow of the single lantern. She was clutching her stomach. He bent down beside her and touched her head. It was clammy and her hair was damp. There were brown streaks of vomit on her chin and on her dress. Navre turned to the maid, lingering nervously in the doorway. ‘I told you not to let her have any more sweets,’ he murmured angrily.

‘I didn’t, your grace,’ whispered the maid.

Navre reached out and picked up a bowl off the floor. There was a half-eaten portion of thick broth crusting the sides. He sniffed at it.

‘Her meal was fresh,’ said the maid, a note of indignation in her tone. ‘I made it for her myself. It must be the foreigners’ food. Or a fever.’

The girl whimpered and stretched back her head, her face screwing up in agony. Blue veins stood out on her skin. Her eyes had narrowed to slits. The bishop put down the bowl and pushed past the maid.

Bent almost double beneath the sail he made his way down the length of the ship, as the boat heaved in the water. He stumbled on a shield, continued on. Cracking his shin against a timber, he straightened with a wince of pain, his head thumping into the taut sail above. On he went, tripping over legs, his hands brushing heads. The boat pitched over a wave. Someone grabbed his arm as he toppled sideways.

‘
Careful
.’

Navre muttered his thanks into the crowded shadows. Finally he reached the prow, where he found a group of men sharing a cup of mead and laughing over a story the captain was telling.

Seeing the bishop, the captain stopped short. ‘Your grace?’

‘How far from land are we?’

‘If we set sail at dawn we’ll be at Orkney by midday.’

‘We must get there sooner.’ Navre lowered his voice. ‘The princess is ill.’

The captain frowned, then nodded. ‘I’ll wake the men. We’ll row through the night.’ He gestured to one of his crew. ‘Svein is a healer. He will look at the child.’

As the bishop and the healer made their way back a bell began to clang and the captain shouted for the crew to hoist the sail. A whisper went down the boat.
The princess is sick.

One of the English knights, roused by the commotion, stopped the bishop on the way to the stern. ‘What is wrong?’ he asked in Latin, a tongue common to them both. ‘They’re saying the girl is ill. Can we do anything?’

‘You can pray,’ answered Navre, ducking into the shelter.

The men heaved and pulled on the oars, propelling the ship through the dark, the dragon-head glowing in the starlight. In the shelter, the girl tossed and sweated in the furs, sometimes crying out for her father, but mostly quiet in her suffering, her ashen face strained in the lantern light. The healer tried to give her salt water to make her sick again and drain her body of any putrefaction in the food she had eaten, despite the maid’s insistence that it was fresh. But she was too weak to take it. In the end, he settled for laying a wet cloth on her head to try to cool the fever. Navre knelt beside her. He had taken his crucifix from the chest of his belongings and now held it over her head to ward off any demons that might be circling, while he prayed for the child’s soul.

Some hours later, a line of darkness appeared in the west. The sky, dusted with stars, was lightening, slowly. The oarsmen, exhausted and sweat-drenched, found new strength at the sight of land and, after a time, the longship drew towards a deserted strip of sand on one of Orkney’s cluster of islands.

The crew vaulted over the gunwales and splashed down into the water, grabbing hold of the ropes. With the wash of the waves, they hauled the broad vessel on to the sand. Navre stooped to gather Margaret in his arms. Her breathing was faint now and she hadn’t cried for some time. Fearful of the nearness of death, he had asked her the seven questions and administered the last rites. Her skin was as white as marble, a sign that she was in the shadow realm. He carried her out into the dawn where the cold wind lifted her hair. Svein and the maid moved in to help, but the bishop refused to relinquish his hold on the girl as he made his way carefully down the gangplank.

The men fell into a hush as the Bishop of Bergen waded into the shallows, the sea dragging at his cloak. The English and Scottish knights crowded in behind him, their faces tense. As the bishop laid the girl on the dry sand, her head fell back against his arm. He gazed down at her. Margaret’s eyes were open, staring into the pale sky.

15

I beg you, Sir Robert!’ called the monk, hastening to keep up. ‘Do not go armed into the house of God!’

The Lord of Annandale paid no heed, continuing in his determined stride as he headed for the church, his cloak, emblazoned with a blue lion, whipping around him in the breeze. Behind him came the Earl of Carrick with ten knights, all armed. The earl had his hand around the hilt of his sword and a coat of mail glinted beneath his surcoat and mantle. The church, rising ahead, was tinged with a bloody hue in the dying light. The doors were closed, but the arched windows were filled with shimmering torchlight.

Robert glanced round as he and Edward walked quickly in the wake of their father and grandfather. The brothers had swords sheathed at their sides and both wore leather gambesons, steeped in oil and wax to stiffen them. Beyond the abbey buildings, Robert picked out the slope of the Moot Hill rising into the red dusk. The tops of the circle of trees that surrounded the ancient place of enthronement flamed copper in the last of the light. His attention was distracted from the hill by one of his father’s knights.

‘Stay behind us,’ warned the man, turning to the brothers as the company approached the church.

Ignoring the pleas of the monk, the Lord of Annandale pushed open the doors. A tumult of voices washed out with the feverish glow of torches. The voices broke off abruptly as the doors banged back against the walls.

Robert, moving in behind the knights, saw twenty or so men turn to look at them. Most he knew from the assembly at Birgham five months earlier: the bishops of Glasgow and St Andrews, Earl Patrick of Dunbar, Earl Walter of Menteith and others. The rest were Augustinian monks from the abbey, dressed in their habits. Beyond the crowd the nave stretched away, flanked by angels and saints, their stone faces turned towards the altar.

‘Is it true?’ demanded the Bruce, his voice blistering. His face was flushed and his mane of hair, blown by the ride to Scone Abbey, was wild about his head.

Robert had never seen his grandfather so wrathful. It surprised him, for until now the old man had seemed relatively calm, despite the disastrous events of the past month.

The Bruce family had been on their way to Scone to await the arrival of the maid, when news of the child’s death had swept south to reach them. Rumour spoke of the longship that had conveyed the girl to Orkney turning around and sailing back across the North Sea, taking her body home, the marriage vessel now a funeral ship. The Bruces had parted company at once, the lord riding hard to Annandale to ensure his strongholds of Annan and Lochmaben were strengthened, and Robert’s father returning to Carrick to fortify Turnberry and alert his vassals. The atmosphere of optimism that had pervaded Scotland during the summer, as people prepared for the inauguration and the betrothal, was at an end. The succession to the throne had been thrown wide open.

Robert had been with his grandfather at Lochmaben, when darker tidings had come, this time from Galloway. Even then, his grandfather remained calm, waiting for the return of his son before the company, strengthened by their knights, had gone with all speed to Scone, where the rest of the magnates were gathering.

Now, the lord’s poise vanished.

‘Tell me, is it true?’ he growled again, his eyes raking the silent crowd. ‘Has John Balliol declared himself king?’

‘Yes,’ said a voice.

Robert recognised it immediately and moved out from behind the knights to see James Stewart emerging from the throng.

‘But it has not been endorsed by us all.’

‘Endorsed?’ came the harsh voice of John Comyn. ‘You speak, Lord Steward, as if the succession to our throne can be decided upon by committee. It is a blood right!’

‘There are others besides the Lord of Galloway who have a blood right,’ replied James sternly. ‘How else, other than by vote, will it be decided upon which of them has the greater claim?’

‘Lord John Balliol has the greater claim,’ responded Comyn. ‘And all of us here know it. Primogeniture—’

‘Our kingdom observes laws older than primogeniture,’ the Earl of Carrick cut across him. ‘By those ancient customs it is my father’s right to take the throne.’ He addressed the men, his voice ringing imperiously through the lofty nave. ‘With Alexander’s stock exhausted, the line of succession reverts to his great-great-grandfather, King David, the youngest son of Malcolm Canmore. David’s next surviving progeny was the Earl of Huntingdon. As the son of one of the Earl of Huntingdon’s three daughters my father is nearest in blood to the royal line that sprang from the House of Canmore.’