Insurrection (24 page)

The lord’s jaw pulsed. As he went to speak, his shoulders sagged and he crossed instead to the stripped bed, where he sat slumped. Robert stared at his grandfather in silence. He looked so terribly frail. His hands, clasped on his knees, were gnarled and shaking, and his skin was as thin as parchment. The creases of age had become furrows, puckering his eyes and mouth. Robert had heard a poet once proclaim that it was better for men to die young and glorious in battle, than to let their strength and youth be plundered by the great thief, Time. He glanced at his own hands, the skin of which was supple, lined only with strong, blue veins.

‘I don’t know how much you heard,’ said the old lord, ‘but you should know that I am going to resign my claim to the throne to your father. It is a blood right of our family and cannot be ignored, whatever King Edward or anyone else decrees. I want it kept alive by one who is worthy of the honour.’ He rose slowly and crossed to Robert. ‘In turn, your father will resign that claim to you and with it the earldom of Carrick.’ The Lord of Annandale grasped Robert’s shoulders. ‘Tomorrow, you will be knighted and dubbed as one of the thirteen earls of Scotland.’ The lord’s hawk-like eyes bored into Robert’s. ‘Promise me you will respect our family’s claim and uphold it with dignity for all the years to come, no matter the pretenders who sit upon that throne in defiance of our right.’

‘I swear it, sir,’ murmured Robert. His voice sounded strange, as if someone else were speaking for him. His mind was reeling.

His grandfather’s eyes filled with concern. ‘I am sorry, Robert, for this burden. Just know I would not pass it to you if I did not believe you capable of bearing it.’

‘It is no burden, Grandfather. It is an honour.’

His grandfather said nothing, but gripped his shoulders tighter.

The procession filed slowly up the Moot Hill in the winter rain, ladies holding their skirts out of the mud, lords and knights cautious on the waterlogged ground. The trees swayed, lashing great drops on to the crowd that gathered on the crown of the hill beside the abbey. From out of their ranks came two men, holding a stout iron pole, from which a large block of creamy stone hung from iron rings. The men’s faces were red and straining as they heaved the stone between them across the muddy ground to the plinth that stood in the centre of the circle of trees. The monks of Scone Abbey watched anxiously as the stone was lowered on to the wide plinth, then covered with a golden cloth, embroidered with a red lion. The rest of the assembly was focused on the lean man dressed in sodden robes of scarlet, girded with a naked sword, who now emerged and walked towards the stone.

James Stewart, the Bishop of St Andrews and the Abbot of Scone followed. John Balliol hardly waited for them to halt before he sat himself upon the Stone of Destiny and faced the masses, his thinning hair plastered to his scalp with rain, which ran in streams down his pockmarked cheeks. The steward came forward, a jewel-encrusted sceptre in his hands. In silence, he handed the symbol of authority to Balliol, whose face twitched in a smile. Next the frail Bishop of St Andrews draped a mantle around Balliol’s shoulders, over which the abbot placed a stole of snow-white ermine. The three men stepped back to stand behind the throne as John Balliol’s pedigree was read out solemnly to the rain-drenched throng.

Standing to the right of the plinth, under a canopy held aloft by his pages, King Edward watched as the cleric intoned the names of kings past. The wind lifted a flap of the embroidered cloth on which Balliol was sitting, revealing a pale corner of stone.

John de Warenne leaned in close at Edward’s side. ‘When do you plan to act, my lord?’

‘Soon,’ replied Edward, not taking his eyes off Balliol.

PART 3

1293–1295 AD

. . . there appeared a star of wonderful magnitude and brightness, darting forth a ray, at the end of which was a globe of fire in form of a dragon.

From this time, therefore, he was called Uther Pendragon, which in the British tongue signifies the dragon’s head; the occasion of this appellation being Merlin’s predicting, from the appearance of a dragon, that he should be king.

The History of the Kings of Britain,
Geoffrey of Monmouth

21

The weeks that followed Robert’s rise to knighthood were dark for the Bruce family, shunned by allies and threatened by enemies. Not since the days of Malachy were their fortunes so beset by disaster and the old lord spent many nights on his knees in Lochmaben’s chapel, begging the saint to remove the hateful curse. Robert joined him at times, worried by his grandfather’s erratic moods and plagued by thoughts of Affraig and her tree of destinies. Had the web containing the noose ever fallen, or was it still hanging there weathered by time, obstinate as the saint who had cursed their line? Torn between heading home to Carrick, now his earldom, and staying in Lochmaben with the old man, the decision had been taken from him that frozen December by the cold hand of death.

Soon after the enthronement of John Balliol, when their supporters were edging away, unwilling or scared to defend the sworn enemies of Scotland’s new king, Lady Marjorie had taken ill. The countess had been frail for some time, never seeming to recover from the birth of Matilda, but gradually she worsened, the bouts of fever and sickness becoming more frequent until one bitter night she slipped away. When word of her passing came to Lochmaben, Robert had gone to Carrick, to stand at her graveside and face his father’s frigid silence. Her death shattered them. It was as if she had been the rope that bound the family together and when she was gone they could only fall apart.

Barely weeks later, Robert’s father had taken his eldest daughter, Isabel, and sailed to Norway, where they remained as guests of King Eric. After his departure, Robert, left alone to deal with his mother’s death and the complexities of the earldom, was grateful to receive a message from his grandfather in March of the new year, asking him to come to Lochmaben. Leaving Carrick in the hands of one of his vassals, a capable knight called Andrew Boyd, Robert and Edward returned to their grandfather’s castle.

On the brothers’ arrival, the old Bruce had called Robert to his solar in the keep. Despite being only a matter of months since he had seen him last, Robert had been shocked by the change in the lord, as the page ushered him into the chamber. A well-built man, whose muscular physique had always belied his age, his grandfather was shrunken and stooped, huddled in a chair by the hearth, his mane of hair as white as frost.

He rose stiffly as Robert crossed the room, the page closing the door behind.

Robert embraced the old man, feeling bones beneath his hands. ‘It is good to see you, Grandfather.’

‘And you, my boy,’ rasped the lord, gesturing him to the other stool set by the fire. ‘Sit, sit.’

Robert glanced around as he sat, noting the familiar tapestry that hung from one wall near the large bed, showing a group of knights on black coursers, pursuing a white stag. It reminded him of the hunts his grandfather had taken him on in Annandale’s woods and he felt a pang for what had passed. He’d been forced to step quickly into his new role as earl, his adolescence smothered by the duties of adulthood. The joys of youth seemed a hazy memory.

‘How are matters in Carrick?’ the old man questioned, studying him.

‘I am finding my feet,’ Robert replied slowly, after a pause. ‘Sir Andrew Boyd has been a great help. I’ve left him in charge of the garrison at Turnberry.’

‘And your vassals?’

‘I’ve accepted the homage of those who live closest to Turnberry. But what with the bad weather and the lambing season just begun I haven’t been able to summon them all yet.’

‘It is early days,’ said the old lord, nodding. ‘There will be time for you to come to know your people.’ His black eyes glimmered in the firelight. ‘Fortune has not favoured our family this past year, Robert, but we must not let these adversities erase two hundred years of influence in this realm. I meant what I said the day I saw you dubbed – that I want you to uphold and preserve our claim.’ He exhaled, looking down at his wrinkled hands. ‘I am tired. Tired in my bones and in my heart. Your father is abroad, trying to build alliances in Norway, and I have no idea when he will return. It is your time now to take on the mantle we wore for so long.’ He paused, fixing Robert with his stare. ‘But I do not believe it can be done in Scotland. The memory of our defeat and Balliol’s victory is still too fresh in the minds of people here. I do not want you tainted with my failure.’

Robert went to protest at the admission, but the old lord held up a hand.

‘I have thought long about this and I feel that the fortunes of our family will best be served elsewhere, for the present. Which is why I want you to go to England. You will spend the next year at our manors in Yorkshire and Essex, acting as de facto lord in the absence of your father. These estates form part of your inheritance and it is important that you take the time to understand their value and meet the men who will one day swear homage to you. After this, you will pay your respects to King Edward in London.’

‘He chose our enemy to take the throne.’ Robert’s voice hardened. ‘Why should I pay my respects at his court?’

‘Because, despite the king’s decision, we are still his vassals. We cannot afford to allow resentment to prejudice our standing in his realm. Indeed, I believe we must cultivate that standing.’

Robert shook his head. He would have expected such a proposition from his father, but not the lord, who had always been careful to maintain a respectful distance from the English king.

The old Bruce, however, was adamant. ‘Our place in Scotland is gravely weakened. We must strengthen it elsewhere if our family is to regain its former authority. You will take your brother,’ continued the lord, reaching for a goblet of wine on the table beside him. ‘And a small group of men I have chosen for you. I am afraid the entourage will not quite befit a man of your position, but with your father abroad and an enemy on the throne I need all the men I have here.’ He raised the goblet and pointed it at his silent grandson. ‘I am counting on you, Robert.’

The warhorse tossed its massive head, eyes rolling wide and white through the slits in the black caparison that covered its bulk. As the knight in the saddle leaned out to take the lance from his squire, his surcoat flapped aside to reveal the fish-scale shimmer of mail. Steadying the spirited destrier he drew back the reins in his left hand, behind the shield strapped to his arm. The shield, flat at the top and tapering to a point at his knee, was black, with a red harp in the centre. The wooden ailettes on his shoulders also bore the device, his only identifying feature outside the encumbering armour and steel helm.

The cheers of the crowd that thronged Smithfield tournament ground built to a crescendo as down the field a second knight reached for his lance. This man was clad in blue with a white stripe slashed diagonally across his surcoat between six gold lions. His shield bore a striking design. Painted a deep, blood scarlet, its centre was embossed with a golden dragon.

There was a burst on a horn. The knights dug in their spurs and the horses lurched forward from opposite ends of the field, thrusting into a gallop through the mud and splintered remains of lances. The knight with the dragon shield almost lost control of his horse and it threatened to veer off the line, but with a twist of the reins he brought it back in time to level his lance. All along the field the crowds jostled to see the clash. Iron tip smashed into wooden shield, the lance shaft exploding into shards. The impact was brutal. The knight with the red harp on his shield was slammed backwards, his own lance swinging wide, the strike sending him plunging over the high saddle as the horse continued on. He hit the ground with a crunch of metal and a spray of muddy water. The crowd roared.

The knight with the dragon shield slowed his destrier to a canter as he approached the far end of the field, onlookers scrabbling to get out of the path of the armoured beast. Wheeling around at the last moment, he unsheathed his broadsword and urged the horse back down the field to where his opponent lay prone. He came to a stop, prepared to dismount and fight on foot. The knight on the ground remained motionless. A horn sounded and three squires bearing the mark of the red harp sprinted on to the field, one running to take the reins of the horse, the others tending their fallen master. The knight with the dragon shield waited, his destrier stomping its hooves. The crowds had quietened to an expectant hush. Was the man just unconscious, or had they witnessed death here on this breezy May morning in London? It was a common enough sight in the tourney, even though these days lances were tipped with three-pronged coronels to spread the force of the blow and swords were made of whalebone.

There was movement from the floor, glimpsed through the legs of the squires, a raised arm, fingers uncurling. The squires moved back as the knight struggled to his feet, his battered shield hanging off his arm by a strap, his lance on the ground, unbroken. Swaying upright, he tugged off the great helm, signalling he would not continue the fight. The knight with the dragon shield jabbed his sword into the air and spurred his horse down the field in a rush of blue silk, amid wild cheers.

Robert, seated with his brother in the royal stand, clapped his approval as the wounded knight was led off and two more opponents trotted their destriers on. It was only the third joust of the day and already he’d seen more skill and power on this field than he’d ever witnessed before. He had been to a few tournaments in Scotland, but nothing like this lavish display. Everything here was grander; the horses bigger, the garb of the knights finer, from the silk pennons on their lance shafts to the crests and feathers that adorned their helms. The crowds too were greater. Robert could still see people filing into the enclosure between rows of striped tents, the knights of the royal household checking them for weapons, forbidden on tournament grounds. This was a relatively old law, passed after one too many tourneys had turned into riots with dozens killed. Jousting had since become more popular than the dust-choked violence of the mêlée and tournaments were refined occasions with judges, prizes and only knights of pedigree allowed to enter, each paying a princely sum. Even so, the royal knights seemed to be amassing a tidy hoard of daggers and knives.