Insurrection: Renegade [02] (44 page)

As Robert approached the castle’s walls, the cries of gulls hanging on the wind, one of all the memories came clearest to his mind.

Turnberry, Scotland

1284 AD (20 years earlier)

Robert stood outside the bedchamber’s door, listening to the low voices of his mother and father. Firelight glowed around the edges where the frame had warped with the change from winter to spring. He found, by pressing his face to it and closing one eye, he could make out a small section of the room beyond, dominated by the large, canopied bed.

His father was sitting on the edge of the mattress, a fur-trimmed mantle draped over his hulking frame, a goblet of wine gripped in his fist. He had removed his boots, which lay on the rug in front of him. Not yet properly cleaned, though the Bruce had been back for over a week, they were caked with a year’s worth of the mud and dust of foreign soil. Robert’s mother stood close by, her long black hair hanging loose down her back. As Robert watched, she placed a hand on his father’s shoulder.

‘You cannot dwell on their deaths, Robert. Your men were doing their duty, serving you.’ She tried to prise the goblet gently from his grasp, but he pulled back and glared up at her, eyes glazed with drink.

‘They took Donald and his son Alan alive, after a surprise attack on our company near Conwy.’ The Bruce’s words were thick and slurred. ‘We tracked them to a camp on the lower slopes of Snowdon. Llywelyn’s rebels were long gone, but they left us a token. Staked out in the snow were the bodies of the men they had captured in the raid. Their stomachs had been cut open with long, thin cuts. Not enough to kill. Not instantly. Just enough to lure the wolves. Some were still there, eating when we arrived.’ His face twisted in memory. ‘They’d grown bold that winter with all the carrion. Our archers shot a couple before the rest fled.’ He put the goblet to his mouth and tipped it back to drain it. ‘Alan’s face – I’ll never forget it. I fear he and his father were still alive when they began to feast.’

Robert felt himself grimace. His mother had pressed her hand to her mouth.

‘Do you want to know what my compensation was?’ The Bruce fumbled for a small chest that was partially sticking out of a bag on the bed. He held it up for a moment, then tossed it aside, the coins inside rattling. ‘Lincoln, Surrey and others got lands and castles for their sacrifices.’ Glowering, he tossed the purse aside. ‘I heard King Edward plans to found a new order of men, an elite brotherhood, in honour of the victors of his conquest of Wales. But he spoke no word of it to me. I lost fifteen men in his service. Where is my reward?’

Marjorie reached forward and, this time, managed to remove the goblet from his hand. ‘Edward is an English king, my love. He will reward his own first and foremost. Didn’t your father always say that?’

He looked up at her, his brow furrowing. ‘I wish you hadn’t summoned him. The last thing I need is his interference.’ Now the drink had left his hand, his shoulders slumped. He looked at his boots, lying on the rug, his eyes seeming to stare right through them. ‘Alan was sixteen, Marjorie.’ His face crumpled and, suddenly, tears were streaming down his cheeks.

Marjorie clasped her husband’s shoulders, pulling him close, as he pushed his head against her stomach and wept.

Robert straightened abruptly, stepping back from the door as his father’s sobs seeped through the wood. In all his ten years he had never seen the man cry. It was an awful sight. One he felt ashamed and frightened to have witnessed.

‘Robert.’

He jerked round to see a huge figure looming in the passage, a mane of silver hair haloed by the light of a single torch on the wall behind. His grandfather raised a finger and beckoned to him. Grateful to leave his father’s hoarse sobs behind, Robert headed down the passage. The old lord said nothing, but placed a firm hand on his shoulder, steering him past the room he shared with his four younger brothers and through the archway that led up a spiral of steps to the battlements. The chill evening air was filled with the cries of gulls. Far below, waves crashed against the cliffs, the waters foaming and boiling.

Robert glanced uncertainly up at his grandfather, as the old man rested his arms on the parapet wall and stared out towards the loaf-shaped dome of Ailsa Craig. ‘Grandfather, I—’

‘Spying is an ugly habit, Robert. A man’s business is his own.’

Robert nodded after a pause. ‘I just wanted to know why he is sending me away.’ His eyes narrowed as he followed his grandfather’s gaze to Ailsa Craig, then beyond the fairy rock, south to where the horizon line darkened imperceptibly, marking the northernmost tip of Ireland. ‘Am I being punished?’

‘Punished?’ The old lord turned to him. ‘Fosterage isn’t a punishment, Robert. It is the time-honoured custom of your kin. The sons of your mother’s family would all have taken this rite of passage over the years. Besides’ – he looked back at the sea – ‘your father didn’t arrange it. I did. It is long past time you saw some of the lands you stand to inherit. Lord Donough is one of your father’s vassals in Glenarm. He is a good man. You will be a page and serve his table, put into practice the hunting skills I have already taught you. And you will be instructed in the arts of war – learning to ride and to wield a sword. It will be the first step in your training for knighthood.’

Robert stared at his grandfather. He felt a bubble of excitement at the thought of being trained to fight. But, still, Ireland seemed a long way from the only home he knew. ‘Why Antrim? Can I not be fostered to a family in Ayr, or somewhere closer?’ He brightened with an idea. ‘Or to you in Lochmaben, Grandfather?’

‘In time, perhaps. For now, your path is set. Lord Donough has sons of his own. One, Cormac, is around your age I believe.’

Robert looked away with a frown, not ready to be mollified.

But his grandfather grasped his shoulders and turned him to face him, fixing him with his dark, hawk-like eyes. ‘Your mother’s line stretches back to the O’Neill kings of Ireland and mine through my grandfather, the Earl of Huntingdon, to King David and his father, Malcolm Canmore. The blood of kings runs in your veins, Robert. This you know. But what I have not told you before is that our king’s father, Alexander II, named me as his successor.’

Robert stared up at him in astonishment. ‘But his son . . .?’

‘It was before our king was born. Alexander, at that time, had no heirs.’ The old lord took his hands from Robert’s shoulders and leaned against the parapet wall. His mane of hair blew wild about his head in the breeze. ‘The king had organised a stag hunt in the royal park at Stirling. I went with him along with many nobles from the court. During the chase the king’s horse took a fall. He landed badly, crushed beneath his destrier, breaking several ribs. It could have been much worse and he knew it. In severe pain, Alexander insisted – before any of us could ride to the castle and fetch him a litter – that he name a successor. It was me.

‘In the dust of that forest track he made all the nobles present go down on one knee and recognise me as his heir. I was eighteen at the time.’ He inhaled sharply. ‘Two years later, Alexander had a son – our king – and his line was secured, but I have never forgotten the sense of purpose and pride I felt that day. It was as though . . .’ He frowned, searching for the words. ‘As though my blood awoke. I was aware of my part in the world and of the great line of men I belonged to, aware of the legacy each one had passed from father to son, down through the years to me. You, Robert, are now part of that line. In time, your father and I will die and you will inherit not only our fortune, but our place in this world, our . . .’ He smiled slightly, his eyes taking on a strange, faraway look. ‘Call it destiny if you will. You must be ready for that burden.’

Robert nodded, inspired by the old man’s story. ‘I will be, Grandfather.’ He paused, looking out over the churning sea towards Ireland. ‘And I’ll make you proud.’

‘I know you will, my son.’

The old man turned to watch the waves, not seeming to realise his mistake. Robert thought of his father crying into his mother’s gown, but didn’t correct him.

Turnberry, Scotland, 1304 AD

As Robert’s company neared the castle, the devastation caused during the English raid became apparent. Turnberry’s walls were blackened with smoke and damaged where timber beams had been burned away. The gates were long gone, the walls to either side tumbled down. In the gaping hole that was left the courtyard beyond was revealed. His constable, Andrew Boyd, had done as ordered, for the site had been mostly cleared of debris, piles of broken masonry heaped up outside the gates. Still, the place looked utterly forlorn.

Looking at the village that stretched down the windswept bluffs to the shore, Robert saw signs of rebuilding, though there were far fewer houses than he remembered. Burned-out shells jutted like blackened teeth between newer buildings. He could see some villagers going about their business, shutting up chicken coops, pushing shutters to, setting muddy clogs outside the door and calling children in from the evening chill, but although Nes held the banner of Carrick hoisted above the company no one rushed to greet their earl. Robert’s return was met not by a fanfare, but by suspicious stares and closing doors. The men who had served in his company this past year might have come to forgive his long absence in England, but he had given the men and women of Turnberry no such reason to pardon him.

Passing the piles of rubble and charred timbers outside the castle’s entrance, Robert noticed a splintered tree trunk looped with chains. It looked like it had been used as a battering ram. He imagined Humphrey standing here with an army, shouting orders as men heaved it against the castle gates. The thought brought the memory of the earl stepping in front of him and striking Aymer. Robert had played out that scene often since leaving the Forest, Humphrey telling him to continue to Turnberry as planned, while they returned to Dunfermline. The earl’s defence of him came loaded with guilt. Bastard though he was, Valence had his measure. And Humphrey he betrayed again.

In the courtyard, carts and wagons were lined up beside a makeshift stable. Of the old stable and kennels, or any of the wooden and thatch outbuildings, there was no sign. There were a few other temporary structures around the courtyard. When Robert and his men approached the gates, two guards emerged from one of them. Seeing their lord had returned, one hastened into the castle.

As Robert was dismounting, Andrew Boyd, Constable of Turnberry, came out to greet him. ‘Sir Robert, it is an honour to welcome you home.’

‘The honour is mine, Andrew,’ answered Robert, clasping the man’s outstretched hand. ‘I am glad to see you.’

‘I was expecting you sooner, according to your message. Did you encounter trouble on your journey?’

‘I had an unexpected detour – a mission for the king. But I’m here now and anxious for us to begin.’ Robert scanned the courtyard with a sense of determination. He had come here with the aim of seeking James Stewart, his plan to draw Wallace into his confidence back on track since he’d sabotaged the Forest raid, but now he was here he was eager to start the reconstruction the king had permitted him to carry out.

‘As you can see we are ready for the rebuilding.’ Boyd’s gaze drifted up the smoke-stained walls to the battlements. ‘The structure is still mostly sound. Turnberry will be as new in no time.’

‘Is there somewhere for me and my men to bed down? It has been a long journey.’

‘Of course. The great hall is mostly intact. But first, there is someone here to see you.’

‘Who?’ asked Robert, feeling a surge of hope as he wondered if the high steward had pre-empted him.

‘Your brother, sir.’

As Boyd said this, Robert realised there was a man standing in the castle’s arched doorway. Alexander Bruce merged with the shadows in his plain brown robes and black hair.

‘I’ll see to your men, sir. You should talk with your brother alone.’ Boyd’s tone was grave. ‘As I said, the great hall is warm and dry.’

Leaving the commander to direct the weary knights, Robert headed across the rubble-strewn yard to where his brother was waiting. He felt unease stir in him at Alexander’s solemn face. His brother was supposed to be at Cambridge, completing his Masters. He wasn’t due to take up his position as dean of Glasgow – as granted by King Edward – until later in the year. ‘Brother,’ he said, embracing him briefly. ‘What brings you?’

Alexander returned the stiff greeting. ‘I’ve been waiting for you. I arrived at the king’s court a fortnight ago. They told me you would be coming here.’ His gaze remained hard, accusatory, then he shook his head and turned down the passage. ‘Come.’

Robert gritted his teeth, knowing his younger brother liked to hold the power and would only stretch the waiting further if pressed. He followed in a taut silence along the dim passageway to the great hall.

The hall was a sorry sight. The whitewashed walls were black with smoke. Gone were the trestles and benches that had once filled the grand chamber, now a dingy shell; an echo chamber for the sea’s muffled boom. The floor was covered in piles of blankets and sacks of belongings, the hall clearly having become a barracks for Boyd and his men. A few torches burned low in sconces on the walls.

Seeing a ragged scrap of material hanging from one wall, Robert crossed to it. As he lifted a frayed and burned edge, he realised this was all that was left of the tapestry that depicted the moment Malcolm Canmore killed his rival, Macbeth, and took the throne, beginning the dynasty from which the Bruce family were descended.