Insurrection (23 page)

Robert led the way through the trees along the dark path to Kirk Loch. Neither of them spoke. Robert’s mind was oddly still now, frozen between rage and rising anticipation. After a moment, the trees fell away and the small body of water opened before them, glittering in the moonlight, edged all around with reeds. His grandfather’s castle, seat of the family for over a century, had been built strategically close to water, but unlike the stronghold of his ancestors at nearby Annan the motte and bailey were a safe distance from the loch-side, the Bruce family having learned the price of Malachy’s curse.

Robert came to a stop, staring out across the water.

Beside him, Eva shivered in the glacial air and moved closer, wrapping her arms about her.

Robert knew what he should do, knew even what she wanted him to do, but his father’s twisted face was breaking through into his thoughts, those words dripping like venom from his mouth. After a moment, he felt something brush against his hand and realised it was her fingers. They threaded through his. Somewhere in the woods an owl screeched. Robert’s heart quickened, his breath coming in clouds. The image of his father was fading, pushed aside by the solidity of her hand in his. He could feel her pulse, rapid as his own. He turned to her, keen to banish the rest of his thoughts, and sought her mouth with his. She tensed, seemingly surprised by his eagerness, then softened against him. She tasted of wine.

Hearing a distant drumming, Robert assumed it was the blood pounding in his head, until the sound grew louder and he realised it was hoof-beats. Three, maybe four sets. He drew back from Eva.

‘More guests?’ she murmured. Her lips were glistening wetly in the moonlight.

The look of them made him spasm uncomfortably and when he spoke his voice came out strained. ‘No.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Everyone’s here.’ Robert hesitated. He wanted to stay out here with her, but those hoof-beats had distracted him. It was late for travel. ‘Come.’ He took her hand and led the way back into the woods, leaving the loch hushed and unruffled behind them.

As they approached the palisade, Robert realised he could no longer hear the bagpipes. Passing through the gate, he caught raised voices coming from the hall. He quickened his pace, Eva almost running beside him, her skirts gathered in her free hand. There were horses in the bailey and the smell of fresh dung. Robert made for the hall, the doors of which had been flung wide open. He could see people milling, a mass of faces. Edward emerged from the crowd. As his gaze alighted on Robert, he came forward. Robert had never seen his younger brother look so grim. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s been announced. John Balliol will be king.’

20

Robert walked the gloomy track through the woods, head down, thumbs stuffed into his belt. The wind rattled the bare boughs of the trees and sent the dead leaves scattering about his feet. His pup, Uathach, one of Scáthach’s last brood, chased them in mad circles, her jaws snapping at the swirling carpet. Usually, the young bitch’s antics amused him, but he hardly noticed today. Robert’s mind, clouded with thoughts, was turned inward, his mood as dark as the November afternoon.

It was a week since the feast and the atmosphere in Lochmaben couldn’t have been more different than before the announcement had come. Many who had supported his grandfather during the hearing had since made their excuses and left, distancing themselves, as if the family had contracted some malady that might be contagious. Robert knew such thoughts were perhaps unjust, for the earls of Mar, Atholl and Dunbar had clearly been stunned and angered by the English king’s decision. But the castle had been unusually quiet for the past seven days and there was no denying that, as enemies of Scotland’s new king, the Bruces’ standing in the realm was now very much in question.

Robert’s father and mother had remained at Lochmaben, although the earl’s wrathful presence had done little to ease the tension. The old lord spent much of the week in his chambers alone, only leaving to pray in the chapel. Two nights ago, Robert had found his grandfather slumped on his knees before a blaze of candles on the altar, saying a fervent prayer over and over, wine sour on his breath.
The curse
, he had groaned, as Robert helped him to his feet.
We must make amends.

Robert had kept apart, spending his days walking in the woods, avoiding even his brother. The country around Lochmaben was quiet now the hunting season was over. The autumn rains had erased the tracks made by horses and men, the forest reclaiming its territory. In the past twelve months, his life had taken on a thrilling momentum. His apprenticeship in Antrim, the training at Turnberry, the path to knighthood he had set out upon in his grandfather’s household, all had finally converged, leading to a grand destination – far grander than he could have imagined. The throne of Scotland. Now he knew what lay ahead was nothing more than a mirage, something glittering and deceptive; the road before him had ended in darkness and uncertainty. He might still be heir to his family’s fortunes, but what would become of those fortunes with an enemy on the throne and the Comyns promoted to even higher offices? Would Annandale and Carrick be safe, or would Balliol enact his revenge on the men who had invaded his lands six years ago? They had heard the lord had recently made Dungal MacDouall captain of the army of Galloway. MacDouall’s father, Robert knew, had been killed by his father during the attack on Buittle and no doubt a desire for vengeance was something these Galloway men had been sitting with for a long time. True, his family owned rich estates in England if it came to it, but that was cold comfort given King Edward’s decision. Perhaps they could retire to their lands in Ireland? That felt too much like defeat, however, and Robert dismissed it from his thoughts as he emerged from the trees.

Lochmaben Castle dominated the landscape before him, the keep rising from the motte over the bailey and the town. Standing strategically between two lochs, it formed the gateway to the west of Scotland. Smoke hung in tattered banners, snatched from rooftops by the grasping wind. It was late in the day and the smells of food coming from the town made Robert’s stomach cramp. With a whistle at Uathach, who was chasing a flock of cawing crows, he made for the south gate, set in the town’s earthen ramparts. It was quicker to go through the settlement than around it. The guards greeted him, but with none of their usual jokes or conversation. Robert felt their stares, worried and full of questions, on his back as he walked away.

He was approaching the square, busy with traders after the market, when he caught sight of a familiar figure by the church steps. It was his grandfather. His mane of silver hair was trapped beneath a felt cap and he looked painfully stooped, his shoulders seeming too heavy for his frame. The lord was talking to someone and it was this second figure that gripped Robert’s attention. It was an old woman in a soiled brown cloak, leaning on a gnarled staff. She was some distance from him, but he could clearly see her face.

Affraig.

It was a shock to see her, as if part of his childhood had manifested itself in a corner of his adult life, filling him with memories and feelings long forgotten. Robert was too far away to hear what they were saying, but their expressions were tense. It looked as though they were arguing. The wind snatched back Affraig’s hood, revealing her hair, now more white than black. Robert moved through the groups of traders packing away their wares, past horses and carts. He saw his grandfather tip back his head and stare at the sky. Then, the old man nodded. Affraig raised her hand to his face and touched his cheek in a familiar and affectionate gesture that surprised and disturbed Robert, then she moved off, leaning on the staff. After a moment, she disappeared behind the church. Robert set off towards his grandfather. The old man was heading for the gate that led to the castle. Before Robert could reach him someone stepped into his path. It was one of his grand­father’s vassals, a knight of a nearby estate.

‘Master Robert,’ greeted the man. ‘I have been meaning to seek an audience with the lord for several days now. I wish to offer my condolences that he wasn’t chosen as our king. I pray Sir Robert doesn’t reproach my tardiness, but with the recent storms I have had my hands full dealing with a flood and all manner of—’

‘I’ll pass on your condolences,’ Robert cut across him, moving past. On the other side of the square he paused, realising his grandfather had disappeared, then he sprinted to the church. Ducking down the side of the building, he entered the little warren of streets, looking for Affraig. But after a few minutes’ fruitless searching, he turned and headed back the way he had come, towards the castle.

Robert was crossing the bailey when he heard raised voices coming from the upper floor of the guest lodgings. Recognising his grandfather’s growl, then the rough-barked response of his father, he went to the door. It opened as he reached it and two serving girls came out, carrying baskets of laundry. They stepped aside, heads bobbing politely. Robert smelled something sour and saw what looked to be a watery bloodstain on one of the sheets, then he was inside and making his way up the stairs to the second storey. He paused in the passage outside the room his parents had been lodged in. The voices of his father and grandfather came clearly through the door.

‘I cannot believe you listened to that crone! You’re a damned
fool
!’ The earl’s voice was contorted with rage. ‘A relic of the past, still believing in curses and magic like some old wife who knows no better! It is no wonder King Edward picked that whoreson John Balliol over you!’

‘You once believed, as I recall.’

‘I was drunk when I sought out that hag,’ hissed the earl. ‘Drunk on the blood I’d seen spilled in those Welsh hills, drunk on the deaths of my men. I was not in my own mind.’

The voice of Robert’s grandfather cracked with sudden emotion. ‘Did you send your man after her because you were ashamed? Did you want to punish her for doing as you asked?’

‘I had nothing to do with that,’ muttered the earl in response.

‘But neither did you give her the justice she deserved.’

‘Justice?’ There was a rush of cruel laughter. ‘A woman living alone who deceives men with her trickery for money will sooner or later get what she deserves.’

For a long moment there was silence. When the old lord spoke again his voice was as cold as marble. ‘The only thing that matters now is that our claim is preserved.’

‘We have no claim, damn you!’

Robert’s grandfather continued, as if the earl hadn’t spoken. ‘I will resign my claim to you today, but tomorrow you will resign it to him.’

Robert took a step back, his brow knotting.

‘I will have no part in your madness!’

Footsteps sounded, coming straight for the door.

‘You will heed me!’ the Lord of Annandale’s voice blasted out. ‘Or by God I will see you stripped of everything!’

The footsteps stopped dead.

‘I know you deceived me and informed King Edward of our attack on Galloway. I know you have been in contact with the king ever since, keeping him advised of our plans.’

Robert’s shock was caught between the revelation and by the molten rage in his grandfather’s voice.

‘There are men in Carrick who are loyal to me,’ the lord went on. ‘It sickens me that I have been forced to spy on my own son, but you have never given me reason to trust you. I said nothing about your betrayal. I let it pass, just as I did your many misdeeds, but it proved to me at last that if there is any hope left for this family it does not lie with you.’

‘With you then? You will wear a shroud before you wear a crown! I am the one who secured real power for this family when I married Marjorie.’

‘How quick you are to forget that by marrying Marjorie without King Alexander’s consent you brought the king’s wrath down upon you both. You almost lost everything! It was only by my influence that the king forgave you and restored Carrick to your wife.’

‘And you have always hated me for that. I will not now give up what is mine by right!’

‘If you do not then you will not inherit Annandale. Neither will you have my lands in England, nor my fortune. When I die, you will get nothing.’

‘You wouldn’t do that. I saved you from that cell in Lewes. I paid your ransom. If not for me, you wouldn’t have an inheritance to give!’

‘Agree, son, and I promise you will live out the end of your days in comfort. Refuse and I swear by God I will see you reduced to nothing.’

There was a creak on the stairs. Robert jerked round to see his mother. She was holding a candle, her face sallow in its gleam.

‘What are you doing, Robert?’

The voices on the other side of the door silenced at her sharp question. Footfalls were followed by the snap of a latch. The door opened and Robert met his grandfather’s gaze.

The old lord opened the door wider. ‘In, boy.’

Robert glanced at his mother, then entered. His grandfather hadn’t called him boy in years. It made him feel young and nervous. His father was standing in the centre of the chamber, his face white with fury. Beyond him, a bed dominated the room. It had been stripped of sheets. Robert thought of the bloodstains in the laundry basket, then heard his grandfather’s voice at his back.

‘Your father has something to say to you.’

The earl strode to the door. Moving past Robert without a word, he halted, facing his father. ‘I wish to God I had left you to rot in Lewes,’ he murmured, before heading from the room.