Insurrection: Renegade [02] (65 page)

‘Then I have leave to go to Galloway? Raise my men for our war?’

‘Yes. But when you have summoned the Disinherited you will not go after Bruce until I give the order. First, there is another alliance I want you to secure.’

Isabel watched from the window as the men gathered in the yard outside. Her husband was among them, his hulking, black-cloaked form moving purposefully through their ranks. The squares of leaded glass fragmented his progress, distorting her view as he mounted his warhorse, whipping the beast with the reins to keep it still. Around him, his knights and squires climbed into the saddles of their palfreys, the grooms leading pack-horses burdened with supplies. Her husband hadn’t deigned to tell her where he was going, but her stable-master had. He was heading for Argyll to raise his allies against Robert Bruce. Captain Dungal MacDouall had left that morning, taking the road south from the manor. As she watched her husband ride out along the western road, Isabel sensed the hot breath of war in the air.

Beyond the track, fields and pastures rolled down towards the sea, seven miles away at St Andrews. Their brown contours were speckled with the first crops of oat and barley, the shades of green bright in the afternoon sun. Once, she would have felt the promise of spring, of hope in those new shoots. But now there was nothing in her heart but the wasted void of winter. As the horsemen disappeared from view, the crows settling in the fields once more, Isabel stepped back from the window. Catching sight of her reflection in the glass, she stared at the bruise that shadowed the side of her face, darkening to purple around her eye.

She received it two days ago, for asking her husband what the rebellion would mean for her nephew, still in King Edward’s custody. His fist had been the answer, coming out of nowhere, shocking her to silence. Agnes had tried to put a poultice on it, but Isabel had stopped her. The bruises were a reassuring explanation for the pain. Crossing to the bed, the countess lay down, twisting the coverlet between her fingers as she watched the sky change from turquoise to indigo. Clouds were rearing in the east and the chamber was full of shadows by the time she closed her eyes.

Isabel sat up suddenly, the covers falling back. She stared around her, disorientated by the change in the room. A candle on the stand opposite her bed guttered, causing shadows to shift across the walls. Agnes must have lit it while she was sleeping. Isabel was about to settle back down, thinking her dreams must have disturbed her, when she heard a piercing cry echo outside, followed by rough shouts and the thud of hooves. She scrambled from the bed, the fog of sleep vanishing instantly.

Going quickly to the window, she saw a company of men riding in through the yard, wielding torches that threw a fierce red light up the sides of the barns and outbuildings. At first she thought her husband had returned, then she saw that these men had swords drawn. As she watched, the men the earl had left to guard the manor burst out from the door below. The horsemen spurred to meet them, the clash of weapons ringing in the night. Isabel whirled around as her door crashed open. Her maids came rushing in, along with several male servants, her cook and steward among them.

Agnes’s face was drained of colour. ‘My lady,’ she cried, going to the countess and clutching her arms.

‘Who are they, Fergus?’ Isabel demanded of her steward, who was helping the cook and kitchen boys drag chests in front of the door, barricading it.

‘I don’t know, my lady,’ panted the steward. ‘The brigands slew the gatehouse guards and came at us out of the dark.’

Outside, the crash of swords continued.

As a ragged scream rose, Agnes gripped Isabel’s arms until her nails bit into the countess’s skin. ‘God save us!’

Isabel’s eyes alighted on a poker hanging by the hearth. Pulling from the maid’s grasp, she crossed to it. Soot smattered the skirts of her grey silk gown as she lifted its iron length. ‘Offer them whatever they want, Fergus,’ she instructed her steward. ‘Coins. My jewels. Anything. You understand?’

‘Yes, my lady.’

There was a bang below as the front door was forced open. Agnes was cowering in a corner. The other maids, all young girls, were pressed up against the wall, sobbing. The fluttering candlelight threw mad shadows over all of them. Fergus and the cook, who was wielding a saucepan, were standing before the door, behind the stack of chests, breathing hard. Crashing sounds echoed up from downstairs, punctuated by the odd shout. Heavy footfalls thumped up the stairs. Isabel gripped the poker, her heart thrumming in her chest. She heard doors being thrown open down the passage, an exchange of voices. She started as the bolt rattled on her bedchamber door. The voices were audible now.

‘This one’s locked, sir.’

‘Break it down.’

The door shuddered in its frame as the men outside slammed against it, the chests jolting with every impact. Agnes and the maids were crying in terror; the cook and kitchen boys had staggered back. It was Isabel and Fergus now, standing before the door. With the next bang the bolt snapped off the frame and the door shuddered open, the chests sliding a little way across the floor. Isabel flinched as a man’s face appeared in the crack, torch flames lighting him from behind.

He was bearded and rough-looking, his eyes lighting up as he saw her. His mouth twisted. ‘In here, sir!’

Fergus moved to Isabel’s side as the men forced the door the rest of the way open, the coffers no match for their strength. One chest toppled, then the others. Isabel held her ground, though her arms were shaking. The rough man entered first, a sword in his hand. Behind him came one who was about the same age as her husband, with dark curly hair. Isabel’s eyes widened in recognition. It was the Earl of Atholl.

He too had a sword in his hand, but he lowered it as he saw her. ‘Lady Isabel.’

‘Sir John?’ Isabel shook her head in confusion. ‘I thought you were a common brigand, come to rob me.’ Her relief retreated as she thought of the earl’s ally, Robert Bruce; her husband’s enemy and murderer of his kinsman. ‘Have you come to kill more Comyns?’ she murmured.

Behind her, Agnes let out a whimper. Fergus stood his ground, but he was ashen in the torchlight.

‘That is not my intention.’

‘No?’ Isabel swallowed back the terrible dryness in her mouth. ‘You killed my guards.’

‘Only those who resisted. The rest have been disarmed. I will let them and all your household live if you come with me.’

‘The countess will go nowhere with you,’ warned Fergus, though his voice trembled.

‘Go where?’ asked Isabel, moving in front of her steward, the poker still brandished in front of her.

John’s eyes, dark and intense like her husband’s, went to the makeshift weapon, then back to her. The corner of his mouth lifted, but the faint smile didn’t seem cruel or mocking. ‘To Scone Abbey, my lady. Sir Robert has need of your service. In five days he will take the throne of Scotland. But he cannot be made without the Earl of Fife.’

‘My nephew is in England, in the custody of King Edward.’

‘We know this. We need one of his blood to officiate in his absence.’

Isabel was so stunned by the revelation she almost laughed. Her arms dropped, the tip of the poker banging against the floor. ‘You want me to place the crown on the new king’s head?’ When John of Atholl inclined his head, an icy tide flooded her. ‘My husband would strip the flesh from my bones. Please, Sir John, do not ask me to do this.’

‘Sir Robert will protect you, my lady. You will be well cared for in his company, of that I assure you.’ The earl’s eyes went to the side of her face.

Isabel had no doubt he was looking at the bruise. Ashamed, she started to turn her head so her hair would tumble in front of it, then stopped herself. ‘Do I even have a choice?’

‘My orders are to bring you to Scone, willing or not. I would rather it was the former.’

‘You will spare my household?’

‘You have my word.’

As Isabel bent and laid the poker on the floor, Agnes cried out behind her. ‘My lady!’

Leaving the maids and her ashen-faced steward, Isabel walked towards the earl. Moving out into the passage, through the crowd of armed men waiting there, she felt a strange numbness settle over her. As she headed slowly down the passage towards the stairs, past open doors and broken furniture, John of Atholl fell into step beside her, after ordering his men to secure the servants in one of the rooms.

‘We’ve been watching your manor. Your husband left earlier today. Where did he go?’

‘To Argyll,’ she told him, amazed at how readily the words came. ‘To raise the MacDougalls against Sir Robert.’ Isabel saw Sir John’s face tighten in the flush of torchlight as they descended the stairs.

‘And MacDouall?’

‘I don’t know. My husband sent him south.’

Sir John led the way out into the yard, where her husband’s guards had been rounded up. They were kneeling in the mud, hands bound behind their backs. A few were injured. They stared at her as she passed. Some of them called out, their voices strained with anger and confusion. Her husband’s remaining horses had been led out of the stables and were now sent galloping into the night as Atholl’s men whipped at their flanks with the flats of their blades. So no one could follow, she guessed. As Sir John spoke with his knights, leaving her alone in the ring of men, Isabel glimpsed several bodies being dragged into the shadows of a barn.

‘It’s a raw night.’

Isabel started and turned to see a young man behind her. He looked a lot like the earl.

‘Here,’ he said, holding out a fur-trimmed cloak, ‘put this on.’

As the young man placed it gently around her shoulders, Isabel heard him murmur.

‘My father will not harm you.’

‘David,’ called Atholl, striding over. ‘Mount up. We’re leaving.’

As the men sheathed their swords and headed for their horses, Isabel felt an urge to weep, but it wasn’t out of fear or sadness. John of Atholl climbed into his saddle and held out his hand to her. She took it, surprised by its strength and warmth, then dug her foot into his stirrup and pushed up, allowing him to haul her up behind him. She sat sideways, her gown cascading down the dusty rump of the horse. Isabel put her arms around Atholl’s waist and held on tight as he spurred out of the yard, followed by his men. As they sped west across the dark fields, the winking lights of her manor fading behind her, the cold March wind stung her face. The tears, for so long frozen inside her, at last began to flow, the green smell of the crops and soil rising all around her.

Chapter 54

Scone, Scotland, 1306 AD

Robert stood before the Moot Hill, a storm of emotion rising in him. His blood seemed hotter, faster in his veins, as if awakened by the spirit of the place that had made his ancestors kings. He felt proud to be fulfilling the ambition of his family; defiant in the face of his enemies who had tried to thwart his attempts to reach this place.

There was a great deal of activity around the low hill, which lay between the sandstone buildings of the Augustinian abbey and the royal burgh of Scone. Flags were being strung between the trees and sprigs of hawthorn spread over the freshly sawn timbers of a dais set in the centre. Two pages were hefting a chair on to the platform, under the scrutinising gaze of Bishop Lamberton. Other servants filed between the hill and the vast encampment that stretched across the abbey grounds, veiled by a gauzy shroud of smoke.

Even though it was early, the camp was bustling with life, excitement palpable in snatches of conversation and laughter. High-ranking magnates had taken up residence in the burgh, while Robert and his family had installed themselves in the abbey itself. It had been disconcerting, returning to the scene of his crime as a guest of honour. He had been relieved to find the elderly abbot he and the Knights of the Dragon encountered when they took the Stone of Destiny had been succeeded by a brisk young man, who was only too keen to put himself at the disposal of his soon-to-be king.

Following the progress of the servants, all carrying paraphernalia for the coming ceremony, Robert’s gaze alighted on a couple strolling through the herb gardens a short distance away. It was his sister and Christopher Seton. They were walking close together, heads bowed in conversation. As Robert watched, Christian paused by a rosemary bush and bent to touch the leaves. Christopher crouched beside her, his gaze on her while she talked, her smiling now and then, him nodding at her words.

The moment of simple affection, stolen in the midst of the momentous occasion, lifted Robert’s heart and made him long for a time to come, untroubled by war or strife. He felt determined to offer the men and women who followed him a new Scotland rebuilt under him, a kingdom free from the yoke of England. He remembered the peace before Alexander III plunged to his death, before John Balliol took the throne and surrendered their liberties. His gaze on his sister and comrade, Robert vowed to bring back those days. With the green hill being readied for his inauguration, the lively sounds coming from the camp and the flush of warmth from the sun on his face, it all seemed possible.

Hearing the jingle of mail behind him, Robert turned to see two of his knights approaching. Both looked serious of face. He had his men guarding the periphery of the town and abbey, not willing to take any chances that this long-awaited day could yet be disrupted. Behind the knights were three others, who had halted some distance away. There was a woman with them.