Insurrection: Renegade [02] (33 page)

‘
Take it
,’ Robert urged the screaming youth, beneath his breath. ‘
God damn you, take it!
’

Even the jeering knights had fallen silent. One of the canons, lined up alongside the bishop, was mouthing a prayer.

The man on the ladder shouted encouragement, stretching out his arm as far as he could. When the youth fell it was a jolt: a sudden plummeting of limbs. Robert had time for a flash of thought –
how fast we are snatched from heaven
– before the man landed with a thud on a pile of rubble. He lay there like a broken doll, one leg bent under him, arms flung wide. Blood trickled from under his head, seeping through the mortar.

‘A sign of God’s displeasure.’ It was the bishop’s voice that cut through the hush. ‘More will fall in the face of His wrath.’

Aymer de Valence strode out from under the shade of the oak. ‘Keep moving, you whelps!’ he shouted at the youths on the scaffold and around the carts, all of whom were motionless, their eyes on the body of their comrade.

For a second, Robert’s mask dropped. He stepped towards Valence, his hand going for his broadsword. Aymer, yelling at the Scots, didn’t notice. Robert was brought up short by Ralph de Monthermer.

The royal knight’s face was firm as he stepped in front of him, although his eyes showed understanding. ‘Take four of your men from the work and have them bury him, Robert. I will replace them with ten of my own.’

Robert’s rage dissolved slowly, fizzing back down inside him. Clarity drew his hand from the sword’s hilt. Not here. Not now.

‘Sir Ralph?’ Valence questioned, as the knight began ordering his own men to help the Scots on the scaffold. ‘What in God’s name are you doing?’

‘More hands will make this task quicker. As you said, King Edward wants the lead tonight.’

Robert allowed himself a brief, silent victory at the affront in Valence’s face, before he moved to the corpse, calling four men to help him.

By the time the dead man had been put in the cemetery’s ground and prayers said over him, one of the carts was full. Far above, the bare timber boards cladding the cathedral’s roof showed pale through the missing lead.

Hot with temper and wine, Valence called his knights to him, telling Ralph and Thomas of Lancaster that he would escort the first load to Brechin Castle. ‘Follow when you’re done,’ he finished, digging his mailed foot into his stirrup and hauling himself up.

The bishop watched him with resentful eyes. ‘Bad enough your king wages war on Scotland. Now, he wages war on the Almighty, stealing from His temple!’

Aymer’s expression changed to one of mocking indignation. ‘My lord does no such thing, your grace.’ He reached into his pouch and drew out a purse. ‘He sent this for you.’ The knight tossed the purse at the bishop’s feet.

With a short laugh at the bishop’s outrage, Aymer rode out of the cathedral grounds. The cart of lead rolled in his wake, churning up the grass.

Robert awoke in his tent the next morning to the air-splitting crack of stones striking the walls of Brechin Castle. He lay, staring up at the stained canvas, as the creak of the siege engines’ frames and the shouts of the engineers filled the dawn. When the next strikes came there were distant splashes as masonry tumbled into the river over which the fortress perched. Robert sat up, his skin glistening. The blankets were soaked where he had lain.

Standing, he crossed to a chest, on which was placed a small basin of water, razor and beaten silver mirror. As he crouched to wet his face, the crossbow bolt dangled from its thong. The pendant was more hex than talisman, taunting him with the reminder that he was no closer to finding the truth. He stared at its reflection, wondering how long he could go on with this charade; praying Balliol would never return, waiting for some chance to look inside that sealed black box, which might or might not prove anything. Would he end up like his grandfather: kept from the throne until he died? Or like his father: a washed-up old drunk, pinned under Edward’s thumb, whose only hope for the throne was in his wine-dazed dreams?

Robert felt a surge of hatred towards the English king, like acid inside him. God damn it, he was the descendant of Malcolm Canmore! He should stride out of this tent and order the fiery cross sent through the kingdom. He would don Affraig’s crown of heather and raise himself an army against the conquering English. His eyes, storm-blue in his sun-darkened face, glared back at him in the silver. During the first invasion of Scotland he had been torn by divided loyalties. This time, the conflict was all one-sided. He wanted to be leading the rebels. Instead he was here, trapped in Edward’s service, wearing this hateful mask of loyalty.

Robert dropped his head with a rough sigh. James Stewart’s voice echoed in his mind, warning him of the futility of decisive action. The English were so close to victory. Any men he could even persuade to join him would be cut down immediately. Alone, he couldn’t raise the size of army needed to counter Edward’s might.
There is a season to everything,
the steward would say.
Have patience for the natural order of things.

After dressing, Robert pushed through the flaps that divided his sleeping area from the rest of the tent. His brother was tucking into a plate of meat and cheese one of the servants had set out.

Edward nodded as Robert appeared. ‘Did you sleep?’ he asked, around a mouthful of bread.

‘As much as I could with the din.’

In answer came another almighty crash as a stone exploded against the castle walls.

Edward raised his eyebrows. ‘How long do you think they’ll last?’

Robert tore off a hunk of bread, but didn’t eat it. ‘Not long at this rate.’

‘Nes told me about the lad, yesterday,’ Edward said, after a pause. ‘And what Valence said.’ He leaned forward, lowering his voice. ‘Brother, please tell me that one day, when you’re king, we’ll get the chance to kick that arrogant cock and all his men into the next life.’

Robert was taken aback by the strength of feeling in his tone. Until now, his brother had been utterly convincing in the deceit. Having worried about his hot temper, believing he would not be able to hide his resentment fighting for the hated enemy, Robert had been gratefully surprised when he had thrown himself with gusto into his new role. Sometimes, he thought Edward enjoyed the charade, lording over the English knights and barons they shared campfires and rations with at night, two loyal Scots hidden among them. ‘We will. I swear it.’

Edward fixed him with a stare. ‘Do you truly believe if Edward conquers Scotland he will give you what you want?’ He spread a hand to indicate the camp outside. ‘Even after all this?’

Robert was silent. He had never confided in his brother about the identity of his attacker in Ireland, or his suspicions about Alexander’s death, fearing Edward might do something reckless and jeopardise them both. The answer to the question was no. Despite James’s faint hope, Robert had never believed the king would willingly give him the throne and here on the campaign, witnessing first-hand his determination to crush Scotland beneath his heel, that belief had solidified. Realising his brother was frowning at him, waiting for an answer, Robert sat back. ‘We don’t know anything yet. We have to be patient. For the moment.’

The tent opened and Nes stuck his head in. ‘Sir Humphrey is here to see you.’

‘Send him in,’ said Robert, tossing the hunk of bread, uneaten, on to the platter.

Edward stood. ‘I need some air.’ As he headed for the flaps, Humphrey entered. They passed one another, Edward offering the earl a curt nod, before ducking outside.

Robert felt instantly wary at the smile on Humphrey’s face. Over the past year, his former friend had become better at the pretence of playing the ally, all the while watching his every move. But Robert had never been convinced by his show. Being a deceiver himself, he knew the signs: the stiffness of the body, the inability quite to meet the other’s gaze, the little cough Humphrey sometimes gave and that smile that didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Does the king require me on the siege lines?’

‘Not yet,’ Humphrey told him. ‘But the castle is taking a hammering. I imagine Brechin will surrender before the week is out. Then we can continue our progress north.’ He paused. ‘I spoke to Ralph last night. He said there was an accident at the cathedral – one of your foot soldiers?’

Robert didn’t have to feign the regret. ‘Yes.’

‘He also told me you and Aymer had a disagreement. That he thought you might . . .’

As Humphrey hesitated, Robert filled in the words. ‘Attack him? Indeed I might have. The bastard was taking wagers on which of my men would fall first.’ Before Humphrey could respond, Robert continued. ‘You and I have, I believe, come to an understanding this past year. But Aymer?’ He gave a humourless bark of laughter. ‘We will never make amends.’

In the silence that followed, stones continued to bombard the castle walls.

Humphrey nodded. ‘You should keep out of his way. He is waiting for an opportunity to drive a wedge between you and the king.’

Robert went and poured wine into two goblets, one of which he handed to Humphrey. ‘I’ve heard once Brechin falls the king plans to move on Aberdeen?’

‘That’s true.’

As Humphrey drank, Robert thought of his brother-in-law, John of Atholl, the Sheriff of Aberdeen. ‘So we might be at this for a while yet?’ When Humphrey looked at him, Robert added, ‘My daughter – I miss her.’

Humphrey relaxed and smiled. This time, the expression almost reached his eyes and Robert saw a ghost of his old friend.

‘It gets harder, doesn’t it, the more we love what we leave behind?’ Humphrey took another sip of wine, his smile softening with affection. ‘But Bess keeps me moving through the blisters and the marches, knowing every step will eventually bring me back to her. As I’m sure Elizabeth and Marjorie do you.’

In truth, Robert had found relief leaving his wife and daughter at York Castle with Bess and Queen Marguerite. After little more than a month in Marjorie’s presence, and most of that spent in preparation for war, she remained a stranger to him. And Elizabeth – his wife? The brief thawing between them had slowed, her angst at being left to look after his estranged daughter cooling their marriage further. ‘Of course,’ he told Humphrey, knowing he must say what the knight expected to hear, while inside he wondered if there was any part of his life that wasn’t a lie.

The tent flaps opened and Henry Percy entered. The Lord of Alnwick’s fleshy face, usually full of arrogant humour, was grim.

‘The rebels, led by John Comyn, have raided into England. The king has just received word from Carlisle. He will send a company to counter at once.’

Humphrey’s jaw tightened, but he nodded determinedly as he set down the goblet. ‘When does he want me to leave?’

‘Not you,’ said Percy, turning his gaze on Robert. ‘Him.’ The challenge was clear in his cold blue eyes.

Chapter 27

Rothesay, Scotland, 1303 AD

John of Atholl jumped down into the shallows. His son, David, came after him, the hem of his cloak trailing in the foaming waves as he followed his father up on to the beach, his hair damp with spray. The waves in the firth had buffeted the little craft on the crossing.

John turned to the two fishermen who had rowed them to Bute. ‘You’ll wait here?’

One of them cracked a toothless smile. ‘Your coins will buy our patience, sir.’

The earl dug his hand into his purse and brought out a penny. It still had the seal of John Balliol on it. He tossed the coin to the fisherman, who snatched it from the air. ‘You’ll get two more when we’re back on the mainland.’

‘Father.’

David was pointing up the beach. John followed his son’s gaze past the clutter of boats and nets on the shore to the fishermen’s huts and wattle houses, then to the edifice of Rothesay Castle, its four drum-like towers looming above the town. Its hulking silhouette, ringed by a moat, was stark against the milk-grey sky. Between a gap in the houses, John made out the drawbridge protruding like a black tongue from the entrance. There were many figures crossing it, some leading horses or drawing handcarts.

Gruff voices drew the earl’s attention along the shore to where four galleys, each of sixteen oars, were drawn up. Long and low with their curved prows, they held echoes of the ships of the Norsemen, who had terrorised these seas and stormed the walls of Rothesay Castle seventy years ago. Men were hoisting chests and barrels into the galleys from a pile on the beach. John saw other figures heading down the main thoroughfare from the castle, carrying crates and casks. Several were wearing the colours of the steward, the blue and white chequered band bold against their yellow tunics.

‘It seems our arrival was timely,’ murmured John, his brow creasing. ‘At least, I hope it was, or our journey will have been wasted.’ He set off up the beach, boots sinking in the sand, his curly hair blown by the salty breeze. David followed.

On reaching the thoroughfare, they found themselves in a tide of people. The air was full of anxious shouts, children’s wails and the bleating of animals. Doors banged as people left their homes, carrying armfuls of belongings. John passed an old woman leading two braying mules, while David found himself in a flock of geese that scattered as he hastened through their midst. He muttered an apology to the young woman herding them, who didn’t respond as she gathered the geese back in with her crook. Her face, like all the others, was drawn and afraid.