Insurrection (75 page)

Comyn didn’t move. Robert could feel the man’s chest heaving against his back with every breath. After a pause, he withdrew the blade from Robert’s neck and relinquished his hold. Across the hall, Edward let Dungal MacDouall go as Neil Campbell grasped his shoulder. MacDouall slid down the timber wall, fighting for breath. Robert wrenched away from Comyn.

‘This council is ended,’ said James Stewart. ‘Retire to your lodgings, all of you. We will return when cooler heads prevail.’ The steward’s voice was hoarse.

Robert pushed his way through the crowd, out into the driving rain. His men surged behind him, their voices raised against the downpour. Above the castle’s timber buildings, which crowned an expansive motte, the sky was bruised, the swollen clouds lit from within by glimmers of lightning. The late summer storms had swept in from the east two days ago and the ground was waterlogged from the deluge, hollows and potholes filled with deep puddles. Robert splashed through them, pulling up the hood of his cloak as he headed for the steep track that led down from the motte.

Below him huddled the buildings that made up the burgh, augmented by the tents and horses of the men who had descended upon Peebles for the council. The town was situated some thirty miles from Roxburgh, in a steep valley within the Forest, the pressing darkness of which drew in close on all sides. The trees were a green sea, rolling and wild, tossed by the tempest. Dimly, Robert heard his men arguing around him as he descended the castle mound, but their words were as incoherent and insubstantial as the wind to him, for his mind was swarming with images, the substance of which blocked out all else. He saw John Comyn’s face, livid with the determination to see him destroyed. The vision was followed by the uncertainty he had seen in the eyes of James Stewart as Comyn revealed his oath to King Edward. As he strode through the storm, down towards the town, he left the castle behind him, but couldn’t leave Comyn’s accusations. They followed him doggedly, ringing in his mind.

Bound to his cause by an unbreakable oath. How can we trust such a man?

How could they indeed? No one, not even his brother, knew he had helped the Knights of the Dragon take the Stone of Destiny from Scone Abbey. That was a weight he bore alone. Robert had told himself that if he’d refused that day to help Humphrey and the others steal the stone, they would have seized it without him – that he could not have prevented them – but this had done little to ease the burden. No matter what he did to aid his kingdom’s liberation, no matter how many English supply lines he attacked, no matter how many Scots he drew beneath his banner, and no matter the steps he took on his path to the throne, he could never forget that the greatest challenge to his own destiny was the very crime he had committed.

There is no throne.

That fact was as stark as a beacon, blazing before him. Wherever he looked, he could always see it. That day – the day of Katherine’s betrayal – Alexander had told him he needed to start believing he could be king. The lord had thought she was the one holding him back and maybe, in some way, that was true: maybe he had thought a soiled maid was all he was worth. But the truth, the real reason he walked towards the throne with doubt blazing in his eyes, was because of what he had done that day at Scone, in the shadow of the hill where he had once sensed the ghosts of his history.

So caught up in his thoughts was he that Robert didn’t see the six figures approaching up the track, until he was almost upon them. Four of them were knights from Carrick. Between them they roughly escorted two figures, both of whom stumbled along, blinded by the hoods that had been thrown over their heads, through which came muffled sounds of protest.

Robert halted, Edward, Alexander and the others stopping with him at the sight.

‘Sir Robert,’ called one of the knights, as thunder cracked above. ‘We found these men trying to enter your lodgings. They said they knew you, but refused to give their names.’

At these words, the captives began struggling.

Robert caught his name in their stifled voices. ‘Remove those hoods.’

As the knights obliged, dragging off the blindfolds, the flushed, angry faces of two young men were revealed. They were clad in tunics and mantles of blue linen, soiled with rain and grime, but clearly of good quality. Both wore sword belts, but without weapons, no doubt taken by the knights. One, who looked a few years older than the other, was short and stocky with a square face framed by a reddish beard and curly blond hair. The younger of the two was tall and sinewy with shoulder-length black hair and a youthful face. Both gazed at Robert, their anger vanishing in wonder.

For a moment, Robert stared at them in puzzlement, then, beside him, he heard Edward shout, his voice raised not in concern, but joy. And all at once he knew them.

The Carrick knights stepped hesitantly away from their prisoners as Robert and Edward went to them and the four young men embraced one another, laughing and exclaiming, their eyes bright with rain and elation. Alexander Seton met Christopher’s questioning gaze and shook his head, as perplexed as his cousin, while John of Atholl and Gartnait of Mar watched on in surprise with Neil Campbell and the others.

Robert pulled back from the black-haired youth, looking him up and down in amazement. ‘By Christ, Niall, you’re almost as tall as I am!’ He stared over at Thomas, who withdrew from Edward’s fierce embrace laughing at the ferocity of the welcome. Robert hadn’t seen his younger brothers in years, for they had remained in fosterage in the Bruce lands in Antrim all through the war at their father’s behest. He looked at them in turn, struck by how handsome Niall had become; the dark good looks of their mother built into his strong cheekbones and deep-set eyes, full of gentle good humour. Thomas had filled out and looked rather more like their father, broad in face and body.

Robert turned to the men behind him, grinning. ‘Come, meet my brothers!’

John of Atholl came forward, shaking his head as he looked at Niall. ‘You must have been a lad of no more than eight or nine when I saw you last, Master Niall. How old are you now? Sixteen? Seventeen?’

‘Eighteen,’ answered Niall, with the pride of a youth on the verge of manhood.

The Setons and Neil Campbell greeted the two men courteously.

When the introductions were done, Robert gestured down the track. ‘Let’s continue this reunion somewhere dry.’ He addressed the four knights, who had led his brothers here. ‘See that food is prepared for my honoured guests.’ The knights headed off quickly down the track, the company following in behind.

As they walked, Robert kept glancing at Niall, amazed by the change in his brother and overcome with joy. He wanted to sling an arm around the younger man’s shoulders, but some awkwardness stopped him, the many years spent apart and all that had happened wedged between them. He had a thousand questions, but one, the easiest, came to mind first. ‘Why on earth didn’t you give your name to my men? If you had explained who you were, you wouldn’t have been treated so roughly.’

‘We didn’t know who we could trust,’ answered Niall, glancing at Thomas, who walked between Robert and Edward. ‘We have heard so many rumours these past few years it has been hard to tell who is fighting who.’ He looked briefly at Robert, a question in his eyes.

Robert suspected his brothers would have many things to ask him. Some of the answers would be hard to give. ‘How did you know we would be in Peebles?’

‘When our vessel landed we went first to Turnberry,’ replied Thomas, his voice deep and brusque. ‘Sir Andrew Boyd recognised us. He told us you were in the Forest, fighting the English. The closer we came the easier it was to pick up your trail.’

Still speaking, the company headed through the bailey. Robert and his men had been barracked in an inn just outside the castle’s palisade. He steered them towards the building as they passed through the gate. ‘I cannot believe you are both here.’

‘I cannot believe that you are a guardian of Scotland,’ said Niall. ‘Why didn’t you send us a message?’

As they reached the timber-beamed inn, Robert paused to allow one of his knights, standing sentry outside, to open the door. ‘Much has happened this past year. I haven’t had the men to spare.’

‘Have you heard from our father?’ asked Thomas, following as Robert entered the building. ‘Where is he? And what of Alexander? Is he still in Cambridge?’

‘Enough!’ protested Edward good-naturedly, before Robert could answer. ‘I insist you tell us your tidings first.’

Entering the large chamber where he was lodging with his men, Robert gave Edward a nod, grateful for the diversion. Shrugging off his sodden cloak, he handed it to Nes, who had risen from his stool by the fire at their entrance. ‘Why have you come?’ he asked them. As Niall looked at Thomas, Robert saw something grave pass between them.

‘The manor of our foster-father has been destroyed,’ said Niall, his handsome face grim. ‘Razed to the ground by knights of Sir Richard de Burgh.’

‘The Earl of Ulster?’ The tidings set an image in Robert’s mind of a stone manor house beside a river, surrounded by green fields, jewelled with rain. Across the room, he saw Edward’s face had darkened and guessed he shared a similar memory of the home of the Irish lord, who had fostered them both. ‘Why would the earl do this?’

‘Men under Sir Richard’s command have been scouring the north of Ireland for the past year,’ replied Thomas, ‘although it was only in recent months, when they began searching Antrim, that we learned this. When they came to us our lord refused them entry, but they forced their way in. We were compelled to leave on pain of death while they hunted through the castle. Finding nothing, they put it to the torch.’

‘So they would know where they had searched already, they said,’ murmured Niall, his face tight.

‘What were they looking for?’ Edward wanted to know.

‘A relic, so we were told, that the King of England desires.’

Robert felt a jolt in his chest. ‘What was this relic?’

Niall answered after a pause. ‘They called it the Staff of Malachy.’

It was growing dark as Robert made his way up the track. The storm had dissipated through the afternoon, but the clouds were low and racing, skimming the castle buildings. The puddles that covered the ground shivered in the squally half-light. For the past two hours, he had sat in council with his men, listening to his brothers speak of the events in Ireland, his thoughts alive with possibilities. Now, as he walked the track, his decision made, he felt feverish, as charged as the lightning that still flickered across the distant skyline. No more politics. No more waiting. If everything had its season, then this would be his.

The ruddy shimmer of torches lit the hulk of the domed, circular hall, the timber walls of which were streaked with rain. Knights wearing the colours of the high steward stood outside keeping watch, their faces burnished by the flames. A few of them nodded to Robert as he approached. The wind whipped his black hair around his face and snatched at his mantle and surcoat, adorned with the red chevron of Carrick. As one of the knights opened the door for him, Robert entered.

The hall was flushed and warm, torches on the walls flaring in the gusts that followed him in. As the door thudded shut, Robert’s gaze alighted on three men seated around the long trestle and boards at one end of the cavernous chamber. Their conversation ceased as he crossed to them, his footsteps hollow on the wooden floor.

‘I take it your brother has withdrawn his teeth?’ enquired Wishart roughly. The bishop shook his head, his face adamant. ‘Things cannot go on this way, Sir Robert. They simply cannot! Edward should have been flogged for attacking MacDouall like that. As Comyn should have been for his actions against you.’

‘Robert,’ greeted James Stewart, half rising and giving Wishart a pacifying look. He gestured to the table, where a jug of wine and several goblets stood. ‘Please, join us.’

Robert shook his head. ‘Thank you, but no.’

‘We have been discussing the possibility of Bishop Lamberton standing as a third guardian,’ said Wishart curtly, not seeming to notice James frown at Robert’s rejection. ‘To mediate between the two of you.’

Robert glanced at William Lamberton, seated beside the Bishop of Glasgow. The young clergyman was studying him with his strange eyes. ‘I think it is a wise choice, your grace,’ he answered. ‘But I myself will be standing down.’

James straightened fully at the statement. ‘Standing down?’ His expression was caught between surprise and anger. ‘Why? Because of John Comyn?’ He fixed Robert with his intense gaze. ‘I implore you to reconsider. Think of the future, Robert. Think of what you risk by this action.’

‘He isn’t the reason I am standing down.’ Robert paused. ‘John Comyn was right about one thing – my connection to King Edward. It is a connection I believe I can use to our advantage. You may have heard by now, but my brothers arrived this evening from our lands in Antrim. They bear tidings that have given me hope. I am to return to Ireland with them, as soon as I am able.’

‘Ireland?’ questioned Wishart. ‘What in God’s name will you find to Scotland’s advantage there?’

‘Something that the King of England greatly desires.’ Nodding respectfully to the high steward and the two bishops, Robert turned and crossed the hall.

As he pushed open the doors, he thought of Fionn mac Cumhaill and his band of warriors, whose heroic deeds he learned by heart in the hall of his foster-father. Disillusioned by the reality of war in Wales and plagued by uncertainties of his place in the Knights of the Dragon, he had banished those boyhood tales from memory, believing them to be a false hope of youth. Now, what had been offered to him but a quest for a treasure that might determine the fate of a kingdom and a way for him to make amends? As he stepped out on to the wild dark of the track, Robert smiled.