Insurrection: Renegade [02] (60 page)

Alexander met his questioning gaze. ‘I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.’

After a pause, Robert released him, watching as he scanned the street before crossing in the wake of the others. He hadn’t expected their friendship, cemented nine years earlier after he joined the insurrection, to be as it was. He understood Alexander’s anger and resentment. Throwing his loyalty behind Robert all those years ago, the lord had forfeited his estates in East Lothian to the English, hoping Robert’s bid for the throne would see him eventually recover those losses. That hope had been destroyed when Robert submitted to King Edward, casting the cousins adrift. Even so, he had thought to have seen some thawing in his old friend by now. It had, after all, been two months since the cousins rejoined his company.

For a moment, he hesitated, wondering if he’d made the wrong decision involving the Setons in tonight’s affair. But there was no time for regrets. He was here and no one, friend nor foe, would stand in the way of the cold slice of justice he intended to serve up. He had waited five months for this.

Robert sprinted across the street, his boots scuffing the frost from the cobbles. Reaching the monastery wall he leapt up, grasping the top with his fingertips. Most of his comrades were already over, down among the cover of trees on the other side. Using rough protrusions of stone as footholds, straining with the effort – his mail coat greatly augmenting his weight – Robert pulled himself up. He was almost at the top when he heard voices. Two men were making their way up the moonlit street towards him. In his haste, he lost his footing and nearly fell, before two sets of hands grabbed his arms and hauled him up. Swinging his legs over the top, Robert jumped into darkness. For a split second he was back in Westminster vaulting from the abbey wall, the Staff of Malachy wedged in his belt, sounds of pursuit at his back. Then, he hit the ground hard, dropping to one knee, before righting himself with a nod of thanks to Thomas and Christopher who had helped him. On the other side of the wall the men’s voices sharpened as they passed by, then faded.

Adjusting his scabbard, Robert made his way to the edge of the trees, beyond which the ground was carved with frozen vegetable patches, vestiges of snow glinting in the furrows. The buildings of the friary rose ahead, pale in the wash of moonlight, an imposing church looming over lower structures that surrounded a cloister. Small outbuildings clustered around the main ones: a bakehouse and brewhouse, latrines and stables. The muted radiance of candlelight shone in several windows. The ten men threaded through the gardens, their black cloaks making them part of the darkness, footsteps muffled by snow.

At a corner of the buildings, Robert pressed himself against the wall, the others lining up beside him. Before him, a small yard opened out opposite a stable. He could smell the acrid stink of soiled straw. A lantern hung from a nail, creaking in the wind and spreading a slick of light across the ground. He could hear the whickers of horses, the rustle of a broom and voices. Two men emerged from the stables and headed across the yard. As they passed beneath the lantern, Robert fixed on their red surcoats, which had a familiar coat of arms embroidered on the chests. His scouts had been right. The confirmation settled in him, hardening his resolve.

Only the rush of the broom came from the stables now the men had gone. Robert turned to Edward and Thomas. ‘Find out where he is.’

His brothers came to the edge of the wall, dirks in their hands. Keeping an eye out, they stole across the yard to the stables.

‘You believe he’ll listen to you?’

Robert turned at Alexander’s question. The lord’s face was carved with darkness from the shadow of his hood. He couldn’t see his expression, but the doubt was clear in his tone. ‘What choice does he have?’

‘He may choose to fight. If he or his men alert the English garrison we—’

‘We won’t give him the chance,’ Robert cut across him. He looked back to see Edward peer into the gloom of the stables, then slip inside, Thomas following. There was a young voice raised in question, which became a cry that cut off abruptly. Sounds of a struggle and the whinny of startled horses were followed by silence. Finally, there was a grunt of pain, then the distinct noise of something being dragged. Edward and Thomas reappeared and made their way across to the waiting men. As they pushed their dirks into their belts beside their swords, Robert saw the blades were clean of blood. Only Thomas’s fist told a tale, the knuckles red.

‘He’s here all right,’ murmured Edward. ‘He and his men have been lodged in the guest room and the abbot’s house.’

‘Where is he now?’ Robert asked, eyeing the two buildings Edward motioned to.

‘The groom said they’re at supper,’ answered Thomas. ‘In the refectory.’

Robert cursed. He had dearly hoped to come upon his enemy unawares and alone. ‘How many horses in the stables?’

Thomas shook his head. ‘Hard to tell. A dozen or more?’

Edward studied Robert. ‘If you’re thinking of storming the refectory it could go badly for us. This wasn’t planned to be a bloodbath.’

Making a decision, Robert pushed himself from the wall and headed across the yard towards the building the two men had disappeared inside. The others followed warily, looking around. There was a row of high arched windows stained by the ruddy glow of firelight. Pausing beneath them, Robert heard voices coming from within, along with muffled laughter and the clatter of dishes. Gesturing to Niall, the tallest and lightest, he crouched and laced his gloved hands together like a stirrup, nodding to Thomas to help him. As Niall stepped into their cupped hands, using the refectory wall to balance himself, Robert and Thomas hefted him up. The others gathered in a tight circle around them, eyeing the yard and the doorways leading into the buildings.

‘Twenty men,’ whispered Niall, when they lowered him back down. ‘Three of them pages by the look of them. But he’s not among them,’ he finished, looking at Robert.

‘We should go,’ said Alexander. ‘It’s almost vespers. We can come back tonight when they’ve retired.’

‘No,’ murmured Robert, impatience stinging him. ‘We’ll split up and find him. If he’s somewhere alone, this will be our best chance.’ Ignoring Alexander’s evident dissatisfaction, he ordered the lord to check the monastery’s guest quarters. ‘Go with him,’ he told his three brothers and one of his knights. ‘We’ll take the abbot’s lodgings.’ Robert caught Edward’s eye. ‘If you find him I want to be the one to question him, understood?’

As the two parties divided, Robert led Christopher and the other three knights to the abbot’s lodge, built just off the church. The windows were unpromisingly dark. As he was approaching the door, he caught the crunch of footsteps in snow. He and his men ducked into the porch as three friars went past, ghostly in their grey habits, breath misting the air. Robert peered out, following their progress with his gaze as they disappeared among the buildings around the cloister. He was turning back to the door when he caught sight of a set of footprints leading from the abbot’s house. The monks had trailed dark lines through the snow on their daily processions to sing the offices, all following the same route. These prints were a single set, heading to the church across the grass where the snow was still pristine. Seeing the shimmer of light in the windows, Robert felt a flicker of anticipation. ‘We’ll try the church first.’

‘The monks?’ cautioned Christopher.

But Robert was off, sprinting across the grass. Reaching the porch, he moved up to the door, grasped the latch and eased it down. There was a click and a creak as it opened. He put his face to the crack, scanning the nave beyond, the aisles of which faded into shadows. At the end of the nave pale gold candlelight seeped from behind the rood screen that hid the monks’ choir. He caught a strong smell of incense and guessed the three friars had been readying the church for the evening office. Alexander was right. He didn’t have long.

Unable to see much else from the doorway, Robert stepped inside. His four companions entered behind him, but lingered near the door at his signal, keeping watch. As Robert walked through the cold dusk of the nave, his footsteps hollow on the tiles, the glow of the candles up ahead flickered in the draught that had streamed in at his back. As he neared the choir, seeing no sign of anyone, his frustration built. At the crossing of the church, Robert halted, scowling into the peaceful gloom. He was about to turn on his heel, when he heard something.

Slipping in behind a pillar, he stared into the darkness at the end of the aisle. Moonlight slanted through the lofty windows, illuminating the floor at intervals. In the distance, shallow stone steps led into an opening – a small chapel, he guessed. A man appeared, descended the steps and turned down the aisle, heading towards Robert. As he passed through one of the swathes of moonlight his features were lit by the pallid sheen. It was John Comyn.

Robert fixed on that pinched, hungry face. It was that face that had spurred him from Westminster, fighting through the mud on the banks of the Tyburn to reach Nes and the horses; that face that had driven him into the Middlesex Forest, Aymer de Valence hot on his heels. Riding hard through the cover of the woods, stopping only when the horses were spent, he and his men had evaded capture, but the expectation of it never left him on the gruelling journey north. Taking tracks across country to skirt towns had added miles to their route and it was late September before Robert crossed the border. By the end of the month he was at Turnberry, greeting his wife and daughter, where, from his newly refortified castle, he summoned his tenants and allies. An early snowfall in late October had given him hope of a reprieve from pursuit, but Robert had known he didn’t have much time. The game was up: his treachery exposed. He had to make his plans fast, before retribution came. But all through the weeks of reunions and secret gatherings that followed, the face of John Comyn had continued to darken his thoughts.

John Comyn stopped dead as the black-cloaked figure swept out of the darkness at him, sword brandished. As Robert pushed back his hood, Comyn’s expression changed from startled surprise to deep shock.

At the sight of his enemy’s stunned disbelief, any vestiges of doubt over the origin of the letter found on William Wallace vanished from Robert. ‘What’s wrong, Sir John? You look as though you’ve seen a spirit.’ His voice shook, barely able to suppress the strength of feeling behind it. ‘I suppose I am, since you intended for my life to have ended back in London, my body and plans rotting in the Tower.’

Comyn licked at his lips. ‘Why are you here?’

‘Did King Edward not tell you I had returned to Scotland?’ Robert’s tone was caustic. He enjoyed the look in Comyn’s face, which told him the man knew nothing. Robert guessed the king had closed ranks after his escape. ‘I imagine, when you go to his assembly for the new justices tomorrow, you will find I am the order of the day.’ He stepped towards Comyn. ‘But we have business of our own to finish, you and me.’

John Comyn held his ground, but his eyes flicked past Robert to the church doors, where Christopher and the other knights were barring the way. ‘The friars will return at any moment. They will alert my men.’

‘I have one question. It won’t take long.’

‘Question?’

‘For months I wondered why you were delaying accepting my proposal. Now, I realise you had other plans. What I don’t understand is why.’ Robert’s brow creased. ‘Why did you do it, John? Why did you plant that letter on Wallace, betraying me to the English? Would you rather have Edward for a king?’

Anger flashed in Comyn’s eyes. ‘You and Edward aren’t our only choices. There were eleven other men with your grandfather and John Balliol whose claims were recognised during the trial.’ He punched his chest with his fist. ‘My father included.’

Robert stared at him in disbelief. ‘You mean to be king?’

‘Why not?’ Comyn demanded. ‘When you resigned as guardian I took control of the kingdom. While you were bowing to the English I was leading us to victory. Balliol is my kin and my family is still respected here, while yours is now forgotten, a relic of an age passed. You’ve been clinging to the last threads of power held by your grandfather. But, I tell you, it has slipped through your fingers. Scotland’s crown will not be yours while I’m still standing.’ Comyn’s face twisted. ‘You’re a two-faced knave, looking to steal himself a prize beyond his honour!’

‘Two-faced?’ Robert’s fingers whitened around the hilt of his broadsword. He thrust it towards Comyn, the tip pointed at his throat. ‘Shall I tell you how Wallace died, you son of a bitch?’ He flung his free hand down the aisle towards the chapel Comyn had come from. ‘God damn you, I hope you were praying for forgiveness!’

Comyn laughed harshly, though his eyes were on the sword. ‘Forgiveness? I need no forgiveness. Wallace was a wanted man. Edward would have strung him up sooner or later. His death is not on me.’

‘No? ?You drew him out of hiding, using John of Menteith.’ Robert caught the surprise in Comyn’s eyes. ‘Neil Campbell came to me at Turnberry. He told me about the ambush outside Glasgow – that Menteith had a large company of men with him, many more than are under his command, and that one was missing a hand. We both know that was MacDouall. Just as we know that you, of the few who knew what I was planning, would be the only one who would betray me.’

‘You cannot prove this. Any of it.’

Robert gave a grim half-smile. ‘In a small way I should thank you. Your duplicity pushed my plans forward, forcing me to take action. I’m finally free of Edward’s shackles. As we speak, my allies are preparing my coronation. What is more, you’re going to support me in my bid.’