Insurrection: Renegade [02] (53 page)

‘I would rather see you sit in place of your uncle than a thousand Bruces, sir,’ responded MacDouall. He sat back down, sliding one of the used goblets towards him with his good hand and pouring himself a measure of wine. His hand shook and he spilled some on the table.

The Black Comyn was studying his kinsman. ‘It is still surprising to me that your father would have given his blessing for this, John. It goes against everything the Comyn family stands for, everything our forefathers worked to achieve. We are kingmakers, not kings.’

‘Times have changed. We must change with them if our family is to regain its former glory,’ Comyn responded, discomforted by the intensity of the man’s stare. The earl, his father’s cousin and fifteen years his senior, was a shrewd man, who had sat at the heart of Scottish politics for decades, appointed as Constable of Scotland under Balliol’s rule. He was not a man to cross. Comyn felt relieved when the earl gave a nod and sat back.

‘That’s as may be,’ observed the Black Comyn. ‘But neither ambition nor need change the fact that Robert Bruce has a claim to the throne that is far stronger than yours. What is the likelihood of you gaining it in his place?’ Before Comyn could answer, he continued. ‘If Bruce was successful in his bid he would make you an earl. That is not something to be dismissed lightly, not by any means. Possession of Carrick grants you estates in Ireland and the lordship of Annandale, along with your holdings in Galloway, gives you control of the west of Scotland. He offers a great reward.’

‘All subject to him,’ Comyn answered, his face flushing at the thought of it. ‘I will not bow before that man. Not if my life depended on it. I would rather remain under the dominion of the English.’

‘Could you make a bid for the throne before he does?’ asked MacDouall, nursing his wine. ‘Now there is no hope for King John’s return, surely the men of the realm would support you? No matter the strength of Bruce’s claim, you are Balliol’s kin. That would count for much in the eyes of your allies. Why not use the same opportunity they intend to? Now King Edward has returned to England, why not rally your supporters and rise up against him? As king?’

‘It cannot be done.’ It was the Black Comyn who answered. ‘For the very same reason Bruce was forced to seek our endorsement. For his plan – or ours – to work, the whole realm must support it. Neither faction has the strength to face the English alone.’ He looked at Comyn. ‘Your surrender to King Edward cost you dearly. You have avoided exile by swearing to hunt down William Wallace, but you paid a high price for the return of Lochindorb and unless you deliver the outlaw you will have to pay more to gain back the rest of your estates.’ He paused. ‘I agree with Lamberton on this if nothing else: Scotland must be united if we are to fight our way free of the English yoke. You have many allies and an army at your command, but since Bruce inherited his father’s lands his strength has increased. He too has powerful friends: the High Steward of Scotland, the Bishops of Glasgow and St Andrews, Earl John of Atholl, Earl Gartnait of Mar, the MacDonalds of Islay, numerous lords and knights. If you tried to take the throne in his stead they would stand against you.’

‘Then we face a future subject to English will?’ murmured Comyn. ‘It is not much of a choice, is it?’

‘Not necessarily.’ The Black Comyn steepled his hands together. ‘If the hope of Bruce becoming king was removed, his supporters would find it far harder to challenge you in your own bid. Faced with only two options for rule – you or an English king – I know which many of them would come to choose in time.’

‘Removed?’ Comyn’s brow knotted. He wondered if the Black Comyn had had the same fantasy as him, out on the jetty. He shook his head. ‘We cannot remove Bruce. Not without risk of civil war.’

‘No. But King Edward could.’

Comyn sat forward. ‘Share your thoughts.’

‘We now know Robert Bruce is a traitor to the English. If Edward was to discover what he is planning, I’ll wager you my earldom Bruce will spend the rest of his days in the Tower of London.’

Comyn shook his head. ‘A fine notion. But not one that will work. King Edward trusts Bruce far more than he trusts any of us. My hatred of the man is well known. Edward is no fool. He would see it as a petty attempt on my part to discredit Bruce to further my own ambitions. I may well end up jeopardising the offer of a place on this new council. Unless I had real proof of Bruce’s treachery, something beyond my own word, the king would not believe it.’

‘We need not look for real proof – when proof can be manufactured to suit our needs.’

Isabel, Countess of Buchan, lay on the bed, her eyes open. On the wall beside her a tapestry depicted a man dressed in robes and crowned with a white halo, standing on the prow of a ship. In the background was an island with a cross above it, blazing in a beam of light from heaven. St Columba, she guessed, on his approach to Iona. The tapestry undulated in the draught coming through the window, making it look as though the woven sea was rippling. The fire had burned low in the grate since her husband had left and the room was as cold as a tomb. Isabel shivered, but made no move to get in under the bedcovers, or call her maids in the adjacent room to stoke the fire. Instead, she closed her eyes and rehearsed the words again, lips moving soundlessly.

Some time later, heavy footsteps approached along the passage outside. The countess pushed herself up on her hands and swung round, sliding from the edge of the mattress. For a moment she panicked, wondering where she should stand. In her husband’s castles or her own manors she knew her place. Here in John Comyn’s northern stronghold she was a guest, the unfamiliarity of the room making her unsure of herself. She made it to the window and sat herself on the cushioned seat, adjusting the padded net that covered her hair as the door opened.

Isabel forced a smile as her husband entered. It froze on her lips as she saw his expression: the tight set of his jaw, the creased skin of his brow. She knew that look. It did not bode well. She watched as he unfastened the pin that held his black mantle in place and swung the garment from his broad shoulders.

‘Why has the fire burned low?’ he growled, looking at her for the first time

‘I’ll have Radulf see to it,’ Isabel promised, as her husband tossed the mantle on the bed. She stood, smoothing the wrinkles in her gown. ‘Did the parley go as hoped?’

The earl grunted something she didn’t catch as he crossed to where his travelling cloak hung on a hook. ‘Have your maids pack,’ he told her, pulling the garment on over his surcoat. ‘The porters will be up in an hour to collect the chests.’

‘We’re leaving?’

‘I have urgent business to attend to.’

The words Isabel had rehearsed swelled in her mind, demanding to be spoken. She went to utter them, but faltered. ‘The king’s new council?’ she said instead. ‘Sir Robert invited you to sit upon it?’

The earl turned abruptly, the furrows in his brow deepening. He gave a bark of sardonic laughter, then crossed to her. ‘Always so proper,’ he murmured, cradling her face in his hand. ‘
Sir
Robert has played an unexpected move. The game has changed. We Comyns must now reposition our pieces. But, yes, King Edward wants me on the council.’

Isabel closed her eyes, feeling the calluses on his palm against her cheek, his skin hardened over the years from the grip of his sword. The unexpected affection emboldened her. ‘That is good indeed.’ She slid her hand over his, keeping it in place. ‘I’ve been thinking, now the war is over, might we ask the king to release my nephew?’ Isabel spoke the words in a rush, glad to have them out of her. They had been circling in her mind for months, since she promised her sister she would petition her husband to make the request.

The earl removed his hand from her cheek. ‘I told you after St Andrews there would be no hope for your nephew’s release. Edward made it plain: Earl Duncan will never set foot in Fife again. He fears to have the kingmaker in Scotland.’

‘Months have passed since St Andrews,’ Isabel continued quickly. ‘Many Scots have served their terms of exile and have returned. Why not my nephew? Perhaps King Edward will feel differently now? Duncan is just a boy.’

‘Enough. I will not suffer explaining politics to a woman.’

Isabel clutched his arm as he turned away. ‘But when you’re sitting on his new council, the king might be persuaded to—’

‘I said enough!’ The Black Comyn’s words rose in a shout. He shoved her away from him.

Isabel was half his size. The brute force of her husband’s strength caused her to pitch back into one of the bedposts. She struck the carved wood hard, her head and spine banging against it. The net that covered her hair was only padded at the sides and offered little protection for her skull. The knock caused the world to jolt in her vision. Dazed, Isabel sank to the floor, holding the back of her head.

The earl stared down at his wife, his fists clenched, his face stained. ‘Do not push me, Isabel,’ he murmured, pointing a warning finger at her. ‘I have no patience for it, as well you know. The matter is closed.’ He straightened as the door to the adjacent chamber opened.

Agnes, one of Isabel’s maids, appeared. ‘My lord?’ She glanced nervously from the earl to Isabel, on the floor. ‘I thought I heard a – an accident?’

‘My wife took a tumble, Agnes,’ said the earl. ‘Help her would you.’ As Agnes hurried to the countess’s side, the Black Comyn crossed to the door. ‘I will send the porters in an hour. Make sure you are ready to leave.’ He shut the door behind him.

Isabel took her hand from her head and stared at the spot of blood on her palm. She was always surprised by its redness.

‘There, there, my lady,’ murmured the maid, making shushing noises as she helped the countess to her feet. ‘Come and sit at the mirror. I will set your hair right.’

‘I am fine, Agnes,’ said Isabel, but she let the maid lead her to the stool in front of a small table, which had a silver mirror on it. She sat staring at her white face in the looking-glass as Agnes removed the net and pins, and her black hair tumbled free. In the mirror it was as though it was happening to somebody else. A numbness settled over her as her body moved obediently in the glass, following the maid’s instructions to tilt her head this way or that. Only her eyes showed any sign of life. So dark blue they were almost indigo, they were like two frozen pools, with glints in the depths. Deep down in Isabel, tides of anger and resentment flowed, but under an icy sheet of fear and indecision all that strength remained hidden, trapped beneath the surface.

Chapter 44

Burstwick, England, 1304 AD

It was approaching twilight as Robert and his men rode into the royal manor, the clatter of hooves echoing off the walls of the buildings. Firelight gleamed in the windows and wood-smoke stung the frigid air. Servants hastened across the yard on errands, watched by sentries outside the doors of the main hall. From the stables and paddocks came the noise and stink of several hundred horses.

Dismounting, Robert saw a camp crowded with tents and wagons set up on a meadow opposite, where men moved in the gloaming. The English army had been disbanded after the fall of Stirling, infantry trickling back to farmsteads and villages, knights and lords to their estates, but the king’s considerable household remained. Robert, riding hard from Badenoch to the Borders, where he had travelled into England in the footsteps of the king, had been surprised to learn that Edward hadn’t moved any further south. As grooms emerged from the stables to take the horses, Fionn trotting over to greet them, he wondered what had caused the delay.

Staring around him, he sensed a strange hush hanging over the manor. No music or laughter drifted from the camp. The servants moved about their business in silence and the sentries seemed subdued. Leaving his own men to unload his belongings, Robert was going over to speak to them when a door in one of the buildings opened and his brother appeared.

Edward Bruce headed over, blowing into his hands at the chill in the air. ‘I thought it was you. Welcome back, brother.’

Robert smiled, glad to see him. ‘I didn’t expect to see you until I reached Westminster. Why is the king still here?’

‘He took ill shortly after we left Scotland. His physician advised him to rest here.’

‘Is it serious?’

‘No. In fact he was on the mend. We were due to leave last week, but then . . .’ Edward paused. ‘Your tidings first, brother.’ He glanced over at the guards, but they were engrossed in their own conversation. ‘How did you fare with Comyn?’ He kept his voice low.

‘He listened. That is all I can say with any certainty. He said he would give me his answer when he’d had time to think on it. So, for now, I wait.’ Robert lifted his shoulders as if shrugging off a burden. ‘I met with our brothers at Lochindorb. Niall and Thomas send their greetings. They are safe.’

A smile broke across Edward’s face. ‘Thank God.’ He laughed in relief. ‘I feared the worst when the Irish attacked Rothesay.’

‘Sir, where shall we put these?’

As Nes called to him Robert saw that his men had unloaded the packs from the horses. He frowned and looked around him, wondering why no steward or official had come out to greet him. ‘Can I stow my gear in your quarters for now?’ he asked his brother. ‘I should speak to the king if he’ll see me. John Comyn and the Earl of Buchan agreed to sit on his new council. God willing,’ he murmured, ‘it will all serve to keep him preoccupied.’