Insurrection (59 page)

Boyhood came dimly in the form of his mother’s arm tight around his shoulders as he watched his father sail out from Portsmouth, bound for France without him. On the heels of this recollection came a mirror image of his father at the palace, grim and silent, watching him ride away into exile. Edward recalled the coming of the Valences and those lavish gifts of land and money his father had bestowed upon them that so angered and alienated his English magnates. He remembered the trouble growing in Wales and the red mouths and clenched fists of the barons in parliament, Henry wilting under their barrage. He remembered his godfather, Simon de Montfort, rising like some charismatic demigod to tower over his father and the king’s face crumpling in anguish as he learned of Edward’s pact with his betrayer.

Gradually, the memories faded to a single image: that of his father limping from the gates of Lewes Priory, Montfort and his men grinning in the torchlight, like wolves whose quarry walked insensibly towards them. They had jostled one another, eager to see the humiliation of the king, humbled before the victor of the civil war, God’s own warrior, the man who had taken Henry’s kingdom and stripped his authority. It was then, more than at any other time, even in exile in Gascony under the banner of the dragon or on the rain-drenched fields of war in Wales, that Edward truly feared he would not live to wear the crown.

This day had been a long time coming.

Edward approached the archbishop, waiting on the dais. There, standing in a shaft of sunlight before the crowds, he took the coronation oath. His voice rang as he promised to defend the Church, do good justice and protect the rights of the Crown. When it was done, the archbishop led the way down the steps of the dais, through swirls of incense to the high altar. Here, to the pure voices of the choir that rose in a fountain of song, Edward’s mantle was removed to reveal a simple linen undershirt. Taking the vessel of holy oil from the Bishop of London, the archbishop moved to perform the unction that would turn Edward from a man into a king. Intoning in Latin, the archbishop dipped his finger into the oil. He hesitated, his finger hovering over Edward’s chest.

Glancing down, Edward realised what had made him pause. Above his heart, visible through the open neck of the shirt, a knotted scar made an ugly pattern of violence on his skin; the wound made by the Assassin Sultan Baybars had sent to kill him.

The attacker had come in disguise to his lodgings in the city of Acre, bearing gifts and a message from Cairo. Eleanor was with him when the man had struck. Edward had thrown the Assassin off, slamming him against a wall and punching him repeatedly until his knights had pulled him back and run the man through. It was only when Edward staggered round to Eleanor and saw the horror filling her face that he realised he had been stabbed. The dagger, partially embedded in his chest, had missed his heart, but that did not matter: an Assassin’s blade meant poison. As he fell to his knees, the breath leaving him, Eleanor had rushed to his side. It was her hand that removed the dagger, causing the blood to spill hot across his chest. The last thing he remembered was her mouth moving over the gaping wound, her lips splattered red as she tried to suck out the poison.  When he came to, Eleanor was weeping in the arms of her maid, covered in blood, and his knights were watching grimly as a skilled Arab surgeon stitched the wound, sending delirious waves of agony through him.

The archbishop reached out and smeared the oil on Edward’s chest. Then, the anointing done, he took up a phial of precious chrism. Edward went down on his knees as the voices of the choir lifted. He closed his eyes as the Latin washed over him and felt a cool sensation as the chrism was trickled on to his head.

Once the unction was done, he returned to the dais. There was a sigh from the watching congregation as he mounted the steps, a king in body and spirit, transformed like Christ himself. Now, the earls who bore the symbols of kingship came forward to invest their new king with the regalia of the realm: a tunic and mantle of gold, Curtana and the rod and sceptre. Last came the crown, embossed with rubies, sapphires and emeralds, as big as eyes.  When it was placed upon his head, Edward stood to hear the cheers of his people.

Hallelujah! Long live the king!

In his mind he saw his father trudging towards Simon de Montfort and the rebel barons.

By God, I will never submit to an enemy. They will know that.

They will know that.

With the cheers still thundering through Westminster Abbey, he reached up and lifted the crown from his head. It took a few moments, but gradually the praises and exclamations died away, people glancing at one another, wondering what he was doing.

‘I stand before you as your king.’

Applause greeted the words, but faded into hush as Edward handed the crown to John de Warenne, standing on the dais with the other magnates.

The king turned to face the throng. ‘But I swear, before God and all here present, that I shall not wear the crown of this kingdom until I have recovered the lands lost by my father.’

He had been headstrong then, fired by ambition. Edward doubted the older barons, those who served his father, had taken him seriously at the time. Most likely they had seen it as a bold statement with which to begin his rule. But over the years, he had shown them he meant what he had said, first with Wales and Ireland, then Gascony and Scotland, lands his father and the kings before him had allowed to be challenged time and time again. There was just one more relic to find, which his men were scouring Ireland for, then his dominion would be complete. Now he had secured the Crown of Arthur and the Stone of Destiny there was no need to keep the details of the prophecy within the confines of the order and his clerics had been busy these past few months, spreading word of his achievements to the people. Already the poets were proclaiming him as the saviour of Britain, a new Arthur, who was delivering them from the doom foretold in a lost prophecy of Merlin.

Ah God! How often Merlin said the truth in his prophecies,
the chronicler Peter Langtoft had written.
Now are the islanders all joined together. And Albany reunited to the regalities, of which king Edward is proclaimed lord.

And here on the altar before the shrine of the Confessor were those regalities. Curtana for England, the Crown of Arthur for Wales and, for Albany – Scotland – the Stone of Destiny. He had done what he had set out to do all those years ago in exile in Gascony, when the seed of his ambition had been sown. Yet for the presentation of the stone, this most auspicious of ceremonies, Edward stood alone. This was supposed to have been a great day for him and for England, but instead of praising his name, the barons were cursing it.

Returning from Scotland the year before, he had buried his brother, Edmund, whose body had been brought back from Gascony, where war lumbered on. Through the marriage of his daughter, Bess, to the Count of Holland he had made a new alliance. But it wasn’t enough to win him the war; to do that he needed money. Edward had turned first to the Church, but the new Archbishop of Canterbury, an indomitable man called Robert Winchelsea, had denied him. In retaliation he outlawed the men of the Church and sent his royal knights to seize their goods, thinking the hard approach would make them fold, as they always had. Winchelsea, however, had proved of sterner stuff and had strengthened their resolve by his own example, persuading them to endure the king’s harsh measures. All through these delays the war in France continued, Edward’s forces losing a battle outside Bayonne with heavy casualties, one of whom was his half-uncle, William de Valence. The formidable Earl of Pembroke had been among his staunchest supporters since his exile in Gascony and his loss was a terrible blow to Edward, whose allies were becoming few and far between. The stark truth of this had become apparent in a parliament at Salisbury.

At the parliament, where he requested further service in Gascony from his barons, Edward had been faced with their blunt, unanimous rejection. The parliament, one of the most humiliating moments of his reign, ended with the barons walking out, one after another. Even his most stalwart supporters, the men of the Round Table, had defied him. The barons’ defiant exodus had been a shocking reality. Shock turned to fear when spies informed him that no fewer than four of his earls – Norfolk, Warwick, Arundel and Hereford – had met to protest against his demands and to rally their supporters. The young Knights of the Dragon, while not openly defying him, were not supporting him as wholeheartedly as they had, caught between faithfulness to their king and to their fathers, whose estates and titles they would soon inherit. Edward had built the Round Table to imbue his vassals with glory and a sense of unity, like the mythic warriors who graced Arthur’s court. Now, almost at the moment his plans had come to fruition, the table was breaking apart. The spectre of civil war loomed black before him. He would not go through that again.

With a supreme effort, he had choked down his pride and made peace with Winchelsea. Now, he would do the same with his barons. He had no choice. The French war, which had proven so detrimental to his reign, required a conclusion. There was still trouble in Scotland, but he could not focus on two fronts at once. Tomorrow, outside this abbey that had seen him crowned king, he would stand before his recalcitrant vassals and beg for their patience. He was going to war in France. If he did not return, his son, Edward of Caernarfon, would take the throne. Arthur’s crown was not enough. He needed to show them he was still their warrior king.

Hearing footsteps echo through the abbey, Edward turned to see one of his knights.

‘My lord. I have brought the prisoners. They await you in the nave.’

Edward headed out through the screen, leaving the workmen to fix the wooden seat of the coronation chair in place over the Stone of Destiny.

In the nave between six knights were three figures. They were pale even though it was late summer, for he had not allowed them to leave the confines of their chambers except to walk each morning in the Tower’s inner ward, which was shaded by high walls. Aside from this, they looked in good health. Edward hadn’t ill-treated any of his Scottish prisoners, not even John Balliol, who was incarcerated in a small, but well-appointed room in the Salt Tower, with servants to attend to his needs. Despite this fact, the three Comyn men watched his approach with hate in their eyes.

As he came to stand before them, the heads of the Red and Black Comyns met his stare, but Badenoch’s son looked away. ‘I have a proposition for you,’ Edward told them. ‘I am willing to forgive your betrayal and your part in the alliance with France. I am even willing to restore your lands.’ Edward looked at young John Comyn whose wife, Joan de Valence, had been ordered back to England on the eve of the war. ‘And to return your wife and child.’

John shifted on his feet and the Earl of Buchan frowned, intrigued. John’s father, the Lord of Badenoch, remained unreadable.

The king continued, his voice tight. This wasn’t something he wanted to do, but with so few of his own magnates willing to serve him in Scotland or France, he had little choice. ‘All this I will do, in return for your service.’

Buchan looked as if he were about to speak, but Badenoch was quicker. ‘Service, my lord?’

‘In Scotland, against the rebels. My men have met with Douglas and Wallace in Irvine, but violence continues under the banner of Moray in the north. If you agree to my terms you will join the forces of Sir John de Warenne and Hugh de Cressingham at Berwick. From there, you will raise your vassals and lead them north to defeat Moray. Once the insurrection is ended and I have the instigators in my custody, I will honour my word.’ When none of them answered, Edward said harshly, ‘Well? What say you?’

Badenoch glanced at Buchan, who gave a nod. Turning to the king, the Red Comyn went down on one knee. ‘We will swear to it, Lord King.’

55

On the edge of the woods, the four men reined in their horses. Jumping down into the long grass, Robert handed the reins to Nes, who took them in silence.

‘We should accompany you,’ advised Alexander.

Christopher added his agreement.

As Robert turned to them the evening sun poured gold into his eyes. He raised his hand to shield his face from the glare. The salt smell of the sea was in the air and he could hear the distant rush of waves on Turnberry beach. ‘I’ll go alone.’ Leaving them on the borders of the trees, he walked into the green shade.

The way at first was easy, the tracks made by deer and other animals forming natural paths through the undergrowth. The sweetness of sap and pine surrounded him and sunlight dappled the forest floor. Somewhere, he could hear the bubbling of hidden streams and memories of boyish laughter echoed to him in the chuckling water. In his mind’s eye he saw his brothers, Thomas and Niall, running through the woods ahead, swinging sticks at the bracken and yelling battle cries. He was ahead of them, running fast, fearlessly leaping fallen boughs. Trailing behind came Alexander. After all these years these woods were achingly familiar, but Robert walked them with a different sense now, a sense of ownership and responsibility.

Gradually the land climbed up and his breath deepened as he ascended one earthy ridge after another, grasping hold of gnarled limbs and snaking roots. As he slid down the last bank the woods thinned, opening out into a valley at the end of which rose a hill studded with gorse. Under the hill was a dwelling, beneath the shadow of an oak. Walking out of the trees, Robert worried that she might not be here, but as he drew closer he saw a thin coil of smoke coming from the roof vent.