Insurrection: Renegade [02] (17 page)

Robert crossed to Elizabeth, who was staring at him half in horror, half in relief. ‘Go,’ he commanded, ushering her down the stairs.

Leaving the three dead men in the room above, they made their way around the broken furniture towards the door, him gripping his sword, her silent and shaking.

Robert stepped out into the street, the rain washing the blood from the blade and cooling his scalp. He turned to face her as she reached the threshold. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘W . . . what?’

‘Did they hurt you?’ he demanded, gripping Elizabeth’s shoulder, forcing the dazed girl to look at him.

‘No,’ she breathed. ‘No.’

‘We need to go. Your father’s men are here.’

‘My father?’ Elizabeth looked hopeful and anguished at once. She opened her mouth to speak, then stopped, her eyes on something behind him.

Robert watched her expression change, saw her face flood with fresh alarm. She shouted his name. As he was turning to see what had startled her, something slammed into his shoulder. He reeled into the doorframe where he hung, breathless, staring at the bloody iron tip of a bolt, which had gone clean through his left shoulder, tearing a red hole through his shirt. A second later he felt the pain; a wrenching, driving agony, the like of which he’d never experienced. He could scarcely get a breath into his lungs so crushing was the force of it. Half turning, the doorframe the only thing holding him up, he saw a figure striding towards him. Through the sickening waves of pain, Robert recognised the man from the barn with the crossbow.

The man paused in the wet. Unhurriedly, he lowered the great bow and drew another quarrel from the slim basket at his hip. As he put his foot in the crossbow’s stirrup and pulled back to reload it, Elizabeth screamed another warning.

‘Run!’ Robert shouted at her. He tried to push her with his free hand, but the pain of moving his arm almost brought him to his knees. ‘
Run!
’

Elizabeth fled down the street, the man letting her go.

Robert staggered into the house, just as the assailant raised the bow and aimed. There was a mighty thump as the bolt punctured the doorframe where he’d been standing a second before. Robert leaned against the wall inside, sweat and rain streaming down his cheeks. The front of his shirt was dark with blood. Outside, he heard the creak and snap of the crossbow being loaded again. The man would have to come inside to use it. His only chance would be to disarm or kill him as he entered. Robert summoned the last of his strength. Moments later, a shadow darkened the doorway. As the man stepped through, Robert struck, crying out with the agony as the bolt moved deep inside his flesh.

Neatly dodging the blow, the man smacked his sword away with the crossbow. As the blade fell from Robert’s grasp, he stumbled into the centre of the room, clutching his shoulder. The man raised the crossbow.

‘Who are you?’ Robert hissed through his teeth.

The man said nothing. His bearded face, olive-skinned, was hard in the gloom.

As Robert sank to his knees he thought the man must have shot him, but he realised the crossbow bolt was still there, aimed at his chest. His vision darkened. Pain was a raging current, carrying him into oblivion. Slipping back, hardly feeling it as he struck the floor, he heard a distant thrumming of hooves. Death, he thought, riding in to claim him. In the wake of the hooves came shouts. Robert saw the man turn, point his crossbow through the open door and shoot the bolt. He heard a girl’s cry, more shouts, then a crashing sound as something heavy hit the ground beside him.

Robert’s last thoughts were of his daughter. Marjorie’s sweet, smiling face overwhelmed him as the world dimmed.

Chapter 13

Lochmaben, Scotland, 1301 AD

‘Turnberry surrendered after two days, my lord. We took all those inside prisoner.’

Humphrey paused in his report, noting that the king hadn’t looked up from the table he was seated behind. Edward’s brow was creased, his pale eyes glinting in the buttery glow of the lanterns as he scanned the letter he held. The canvas sides of the pavilion undulated in the breeze streaming in through the flaps, carrying sounds of music and laughter.

The king raised his head at Humphrey’s silence. ‘Go on.’

‘Having razed the castle we moved on to Ayr. After he burned the town three years ago to prevent us from securing it as a base, Bruce ordered its reconstruction. Under your son’s command we sacked the settlement and destroyed the new fortifications. I can assure you, my lord, that these raids, combined with the slaughter of livestock and burning of crops, mean the people of Carrick will find it hard to sustain themselves through the coming winter.’

‘Good,’ murmured the king. He was looking at the letter again.

A gust of wind billowed the silk curtains that partitioned the royal pavilion, offering Humphrey a glimpse of the four-poster bed that accompanied Edward wherever he went. It was heaped with pillows and covered with linen coloured red with insect dye. On a cushioned chair close by was Queen Marguerite, her delicately beautiful face profiled above the cloud-soft ermine cloak draped around her shoulders. The garment couldn’t quite conceal the swell of her second pregnancy. As Humphrey watched, the queen leaned forward and moved a rook made of crystal across the chessboard in front of her. One of her maids, seated opposite, countered the move with a jasper pawn. Through another set of curtains came a wailing cry as Edward’s infant son, Thomas, woke for a feed from his wet nurse.

Humphrey’s gaze switched back to the king. ‘Have you had any word on Robert Bruce’s whereabouts, my lord?’

At the question, the king looked up abruptly, his eyes at once focused. He set down the letter. As he did so, Humphrey saw the seal of the King of France attached to the bottom.

‘I was hoping you might be able to shed more light on his location, having spent the past month in his earldom.’

Humphrey was accustomed to hearing the steely displeasure in the king’s tone, but was still unused to the acute discomfort a man could feel when it was levelled at him. ‘I questioned the Constable of Turnberry at length, my lord, but he swore he had no idea where Robert had gone, only that he left Carrick over a year ago.’

‘You believe him?’

‘We have no real way of knowing.’ As the king’s gaze bored into him, Humphrey added, ‘But I cannot imagine he will remain hidden for ever. Sooner or later, Bruce will surface, of that I am certain.’

Something thoughtful, almost knowing passed across the king’s face. ‘Perhaps.’ He waved away a page who came to refill his goblet. ‘And what of my son’s performance? How did he fare with his first command?’

At once, Humphrey understood why he was giving the account rather than young Edward himself. They had arrived at Lochmaben earlier that afternoon, but except to glean the bare facts of the campaign, the king hadn’t requested a full report until now. ‘He maintained good order, my lord,’ Humphrey began carefully. ‘The siege of Turnberry and the sack of Ayr were efficiently conducted. Our men sustained few injuries and there were no fatalities. We lost only five horses on the entire campaign.’

‘Interesting,’ said the king, lacing his long fingers beneath his chin. One of the rings he wore caught the lantern light, the ruby at its centre flashing. ‘My nephew gives a different report.’

Humphrey’s discomfort increased as he saw the trap he’d been caught in. He had no idea the king had already spoken to Thomas of Lancaster. He cursed himself for being so inattentive. A man did not do well to drop his guard under Edward Longshanks.

‘Thomas tells me if it wasn’t for you, Turnberry would not have been captured at all. He said my son was more interested in cavorting with his friends than in making war on my enemies.’

‘He needed direction, my lord, that is all. Sir Thomas is not fond of Piers Gaveston. I fear his judgement in this matter may be coloured by that dislike.’

Edward took up his goblet, running a finger around the base. ‘Was I right, Humphrey, to make my son Prince of Wales? My hope was that in rewarding him with such an honour he would grow to befit that mould.’

Humphrey was struck by how old the king looked, his jaw sagging beneath the frost-white trim of his beard, his skin tinged grey with fatigue. He thought of England under his son and felt a stirring of unease. It was up to men like him to help mould Prince Edward into the man needed to fill his father’s place. ‘Yes, my lord,’ he said determinedly. ‘I believe your son is ready for such authority.’

But the king was staring at the letter again.

‘Word from France?’ Humphrey ventured.

‘While you were in Carrick I received tidings from my spies there that John Balliol had been released from papal custody on the orders of King Philippe.’ Edward held out the parchment for Humphrey to take. ‘This came last week, delivered from Westminster. My cousin recommends I make a truce with the Scots as a first step towards Balliol’s restoration.’ The king’s ire stripped years from him, adding colour to his cheeks and vigour to his posture. ‘It is clear that, should I refuse, there will be no treaty with France and Philippe will continue to occupy my duchy of Gascony.’

‘What will you do, my lord?’ asked Humphrey, glancing up from the parchment, his mind clouding with the prospects of this twist of events. ‘Another war cannot be an option, surely?’

Edward looked at him sharply. ‘The struggle for Gascony stripped me of my money and the support of my men – even your father and others of the Round Table stood against me.’ His tone was flint. ‘So, no, another war is not an option. Not yet at least. But neither will I allow Balliol to return to the throne. My plan is to offer the Scots a temporary truce, as Philippe requests. I did not intend to campaign through the winter so such agreement will not affect my plans. What it will do is buy me time. There will be a way through this – without war, without the loss of Gascony and without the return of that snake, John Balliol. I have the winter to find the answer.’ The king rose. Even with the slight stoop in his broad shoulders, he towered over Humphrey. ‘We will speak more of this matter in council tomorrow. For tonight, we celebrate. Go, join my daughter, Humphrey. France will wait a day.’

With a bow, Humphrey left the royal pavilion. Ducking through the flaps, past guards standing sentry, he strode into the chilly evening where scores of campfires illuminated the compound. The king’s newly built fortifications at Lochmaben – which he had retired to after a victory in the north with the fall of Bothwell Castle – were ringed by earthen ramparts topped with a palisade. Lookout platforms had been erected either side of the main gates and the shadows of sentries moved against the sky. The compound was dominated by a timber fort that rose like a tall ship above a sea of tents. The place was alive with music and conversation. Men crowded the spaces between tents, carts and horses, gathering around fires to share wine and ale. Smells of meat rose from cooking pots, summoning in Humphrey an ache of hunger.

He caught a glimpse of the king’s son, in whose honour the celebrations were being held. The newly titled Prince of Wales was standing with Piers Gaveston, watching two bare-chested men wrestle. One of the combatants had a bloody nose, the other a split lip. Gleaming with sweat, they circled one another, before coming in to lock in a fist-pummelled embrace. Prince Edward, resplendent in a mantle of gold, turned as Piers passed him a wine skin. The Gascon leaned in as he took it and whispered something in his ear. Humphrey saw the prince smile, his face flushed in the torchlight.

‘Sir Humphrey!’

He turned to see Ralph de Monthermer.

The royal knight lifted a goblet in greeting. His yellow mantle, decorated with a green eagle, shimmered. ‘Come. Join us!’

Humphrey caught sight of Aymer de Valence and Henry Percy in the throng. No doubt the other barons would be close by, but he had somewhere more inviting to be than with the men of the Round Table. ‘In a while,’ he called to the knight, who shrugged amiably.

Humphrey headed on through the crowds towards the timber fort, sidestepping a drunken soldier, who fell into one of the tents which collapsed beneath him, raising a cheer from his companions. Others reeled about, arms slung around one another’s shoulders. The festivities might be for their new prince, but all the men here were celebrating their own triumphs at the end of a campaign that had seen the fall of three mighty castles and the burning of the west; a campaign that had scarcely been challenged by the Scots. The rebels, it seemed, had lost the will to fight. One more summer like this and the English would wrest control of Stirling Castle, fallen to the enemy last year, then the north of Scotland would be open to them. If, that was, King Philippe’s demand didn’t stop them in their tracks.

They had been at war with Scotland for five years and had suffered terrible losses as well as victories in that time. Humphrey thought of all the coin diverted from England to fund the king’s cause, all the months spent away from their estates and families, all the lives wasted on the blades of swords, his father’s among them. His hunger pangs and eagerness to see Bess faded with the ache of that loss. Three years since Falkirk and he still saw that moment as if it were yesterday: his father’s horse up to its neck in a bog, the earl slipping from the saddle, lanced by a Scottish spear, to be claimed by the mud. Determination rose in Humphrey like a slow, prickling heat. He would do whatever was necessary to help Edward prevent John Balliol returning to the throne and the Scots reclaiming their kingdom. If they allowed that to happen such sacrifices would mean nothing. He couldn’t live with that prospect.