Insurrection: Renegade [02] (62 page)

Robert met Mary’s sharp gaze, struck by her similarity to Edward with her black hair and those well-defined features that lent her face a hard, almost sly mien. His sisters had arrived at Turnberry shortly before the Christ Mass, drawn from Kildrummy Castle by his summons. He was still surprised by how much the three of them had changed since he’d last seen them, Mary and Matilda especially, who, at twenty and nineteen, were the youngest of his siblings by a decade. ‘I have a council to attend.’

‘Elizabeth and Marjorie are joining us this evening,’ said Christian, holding out her goblet as her page moved to refresh it with watered wine. Her tone carried a suggestive hint. ‘It would be a rare pleasure if we all ate together.’

Matilda brightened. ‘Lady Elizabeth is bringing her minstrel.’ Her voice, soft and low, revealed something of her shy nature. She glanced at Mary whenever she spoke, Robert had noticed, as if looking for permission.

He gave Christian a look, irritated that his sister seemed intent on trying to soothe the troubles in his marriage. On his return to Scotland there had been a brief period of grace in which he had built some bridges with his wife. But those connections, fragile and new, had broken under the strain of the past few weeks. Elizabeth had cooled considerably towards him after the events at Dumfries, but with the march to war, he’d had neither the time nor the inclination to speak to her. ‘This is a siege camp, Christian. Not a fair.’ A gust of wind blew in at his back as someone entered. Robert turned, grateful for the interruption, to see Christopher Seton.

The knight nodded courteously to the three women, his eyes lingering on Christian, before turning his attention to Robert. ‘You have more new arrivals, along with one you’ve been waiting for. Bishop Wishart has come. I’ve shown him to the war tent. The others are gathering there now.’

Robert gave a satisfied grunt. ‘His grace’s timing is impeccable.’

Christian had risen. ‘Sir Christopher,’ she called, as Robert headed for the opening.

The knight looked back. ‘My lady?’

‘I was just trying to persuade my brother to eat with us this evening. Perhaps you can convince him?’ Christian smiled. ‘There is room enough for both of you.’

Robert went to reproach her, then stopped as he saw his friend’s expression. The knight had a fool’s grin plastered all over his face.

In that moment, the years of war and hardship were stripped away and Christopher looked much as he had when Robert first met him at the siege of Carlisle – an earnest, eager young man, his life stretching before him full of possibility. Even when living hand to mouth in the Forest, even when hunger and pain had taken their toll, he had managed to retain his good-natured humour, playing his flute around the campfires to cheer the men, laughing and joking with Edward and Niall. Until four weeks ago.

Robert stared at him, wondering if his friend had known back then on Carlisle’s walls – the day he’d saved his life – that ten years later he’d be jointly responsible for the murder of a man in a house of God whether Christopher would have pledged himself quite so freely to his cause. Since that night in Dumfries, he had been withdrawn, sitting in silence at mealtimes, tight-lipped and tense.

For Robert it was a relief now to see him smile, as if all could yet be right in the world, despite the events of the last month. Back in Turnberry, he’d noticed an attraction between his widowed sister and the knight. If Christian could bring back the carefree man he knew, who was he to stand in the way? ‘We’ll come,’ he told his sister. ‘Both of us.’

Leaving the women, Christopher glancing back until he’d ducked out, the two of them headed through the encampment.

It was a brisk March morning. Huge clouds scudded across the sky, sweeping shadows across the brown waters of the Clyde. The gusts coming off the wide estuary cut like glass and Robert drew his fur-trimmed mantle tighter. All around him, tents snapped and flags billowed, the multitude of colours and emblems rippling madly. New banners had joined them each day as more men answered the call to arms. Smoke blew ragged across the site, mixing with the reek from the dug-out latrines and piles of dung around makeshift stables. The camp stretched across a plain near the mighty river’s banks. Just beyond a channel of mud, visible now it was low tide, reared two massive horns of rock, in the green cleft of which was built the ancient stronghold of Dumbarton Castle.

From the mud-banks a rocky path climbed to the castle’s stout lower walls, beyond which rose a collection of stone and timber buildings. The dual heights ascended precipitously behind, girdled by more walls on their higher flanks. The two spurs of rock were crowned respectively by a white tower and a great hall. In a land studded with redoubtable fortresses, Dumbarton was one of the most impregnable. Inside, well guarded on his water-encircled rock, was John of Menteith. The man who captured William Wallace and gave him to the English had been generously rewarded by King Edward, who had forgiven him his debts to the crown and made him keeper of the castle.

It was the sixth stronghold Robert had laid siege to in four weeks. His campaign, beginning unexpectedly at Dumfries, had been as a boulder pushed down a hillside, gathering momentum, picking up stones and rocks in its wake, until it was an avalanche. Along with Rothesay, Dunaverty and Ayr, Dumbarton guarded the western approaches to Scotland – a vital route both for supplies and the reinforcements Robert hoped would yet come from the isles beyond. The strategic position aside, it was also the one he most desired to capture. Menteith, he was determined, would pay for the treachery against Wallace. The other castles had fallen quickly, by skill, subterfuge or threat, but Menteith had held out and without siege engines to batter the walls, Robert had been forced to content himself with cutting off his enemy’s supply lines and putting the fear of God in the bastard with his ever growing force.

‘Here are the new arrivals,’ said Christopher, drawing Robert’s attention to a small company of twenty or so men, standing around a group of dusty-looking horses.

As Robert approached he was surprised to see a woman step out of their ranks, dressed in a mulberry-coloured cloak, fastened with a silver brooch. She was in her late thirties, with a proud, weathered face and sandy hair that was greying at her temples. He was even more surprised when she came forward and embraced him. Clasping her arms, Robert removed himself from her grasp. ‘My lady . . .’ he began, bemused, aware of the men looking over at him. One, standing at the front, was younger than the others, in his late teens. With his sandy hair and narrow-set eyes he was too alike the woman not to be related to her. They both had an odd familiarity, but Robert couldn’t place it. The young man had his arms folded across his chest and was appraising him coolly.

The woman laughed at Robert’s confusion. ‘Do you not remember me, little brother?’

Recognition dawned. The woman was his half-sister, Margaret, the only child of his mother’s first marriage. Robert hadn’t seen her since he was a boy, for she had been wed at fifteen. He’d heard word of her over the years through his mother, then, more infrequently, his father and knew Margaret’s husband, a knight from Roxburghshire, had died some time ago. ‘Sister!’ Laughing, he pulled her back into his arms.

Smiling broadly, Margaret motioned to the sandy-haired young man. ‘This is Thomas Randolph, my son. Your nephew.’

Robert smiled and extended his hand. Thomas Randolph made no move to take it, but after a meaningful glare from his mother, he came forward and clasped it briefly.

‘I didn’t even know you had returned to Scotland,’ said Margaret, looking back at Robert, ‘until the fiery cross came through our village and people said you were gathering an army.’

‘I had to keep my head down while I garnered support. I knew it was only a matter of time before the English came for me.’

‘I’ve brought you my late husband’s doughtiest men.’ Margaret gestured to the horsemen at her back. ‘Their swords are yours, brother.’

‘I gratefully accept,’ Robert told her, nodding a welcome to the men. ‘I’ll need all I can muster in the coming days.’

‘Are the rumours true, Sir Robert?’ Thomas’s voice cut across them, cool and clipped. ‘About what happened to John Comyn?’

Margaret’s eyes narrowed. ‘Thomas, I swear by God, I’ll—’

‘No, sister,’ Robert cut in, ‘I’m sure you both have questions.’ He levelled his half-nephew with a stare. ‘But there will be time to talk later. For now, I must hold a council of war.’

Thomas Randolph, caught under that gaze, looked away.

Robert cast his eyes back to Margaret, his expression lightening. ‘We have family here you should see.’ He called to the squire of one of his knights, who was heading past. ‘Arthur, show my sister and her men a place where they can make camp, then escort her to Lady Christian’s tent.’

Leaving Margaret and her belligerent son in the squire’s care, Robert headed for his pavilion, noting the vestiges of the smile had faded from Christopher’s face at the mention of John Comyn.

The war tent stood at the centre of the encampment. Two banners surged outside, one white, decorated with the red chevron of Carrick, the other yellow, crossed with the banded red saltire of Annandale. There was a crowd of men and horses there that Robert recognised as Bishop Wishart’s entourage. Nes was talking to them. He was wearing a new mail hauberk, the rings of which glittered beneath his cloak. Two weeks ago, Robert had knighted the young man for his part in their escape from Dumfries.

That night, Nes, hearing the hue and cry raised by Comyn’s men, had led the rest of Robert’s company and the horses into the town, where he’d found his master fleeing the monastery. Mounting up, Robert and the others had taken flight through the streets of Dumfries, Comyn’s men following doggedly. In an effort to slow pursuit, Robert had roused the townsfolk from their homes, calling them to arms as he cantered down the thoroughfares, the voices of his men joining his until the streets resounded with their shouts. Thinking marauders were attacking, the people of Dumfries had poured from their houses, brandishing knives and flaming torches.

Their progress impeded by the swelling rabble, Comyn’s men had made instead for the castle on the outskirts of the town, where the first gathering of King Edward’s new Scottish council was due to take place. Robert, guessing they were going for reinforcements, had made a bold decision. Shouting to the milling, agitated crowds that he had come to liberate them from their English oppressors, he had taken command of the mob. Bolstered by more than a hundred armed townsfolk, he and his men stormed the castle, routing the garrison, who fled when he threatened to burn down the building with them inside. Robert had let them go. Their escape did not matter. With that move, his campaign had begun and there was nothing to stand in his way.

Seeing Robert approaching, Nes came to greet him. ‘Everyone’s here, sir,’ he said, falling into step beside him.

As they reached the pavilion, Robert caught sight of Elizabeth ducking out of the tent she shared with Marjorie. Her hand came up to shield her eyes from the sun as she surveyed the camp, not seeming to see him. She looked incredibly thin, her dress hanging loose on her frame. Looking at her now, it didn’t seem possible that she would ever be able to bear the life she craved. Robert had an unexpected memory of Katherine, his first wife’s maid, who had been his lover for a brief time until he discovered her infidelity. When he dismissed her from his presence, Katherine had told him she was pregnant. He rarely thought about her, but a flicker of question now crossed his mind. The thought passed as Elizabeth glanced in his direction. Robert met her gaze across the distance. He had given her trinkets and fur-lined cloaks, but it hadn’t been enough. He must give her a child – the child she wanted and the heir he needed. Soon now, he promised her inwardly, after his coronation, she would have this.

As Nes swept aside the tent flaps, Robert headed in, his gaze going to the large round table in the centre. It was surrounded by fourteen men. John of Atholl was there, fists planted on the table, his expression intent. Beside the earl was his son David. Edward Bruce stood next to Neil Campbell, who had a new scar on his face from the skirmish with Menteith. Thomas Bruce nodded as he saw Robert, while Niall flashed a smile. Between them was Alexander Bruce, who had joined them in the autumn after Robert ordered him to leave his position as dean at Glasgow Cathedral. He had feared for his brother’s safety, the benefice having been granted by King Edward, but Alexander had seen scant reason to thank him for his consideration. Robert was relieved he would be leaving his company today. He didn’t need any more priests around him at the moment. He knew well enough the gravity of his sins.

William Lamberton looked round as Robert approached the table with Christopher and Nes. James Douglas was at the bishop’s side, an air of determination in his stance. Beside him was Gilbert de la Hay, Lord of Erroll, once a staunch supporter of Wallace. The lord was built like a Caledonian pine, his flop of blond hair brushing the slanting canvas roof. The last four men at the table were James Stewart, Alexander Seton and two new arrivals. The broad, stooped form of Bishop Wishart, Robert was expecting. The other, a man of his own age with a handsome, hawk-like face and sleek dark hair, was a surprise. Robert’s brow furrowed as he locked eyes with Malcolm of Lennox. The last time he’d seen the earl was in the Forest after Falkirk. Several years before that, Lennox had been one of the men who had laid siege to him and his father at Carlisle.

Malcolm immediately stepped forward and held out his hand. ‘Sir Robert, I hear you need men for a new war against the English.’