Insurrection: Renegade [02] (66 page)

‘Sir, there’s someone here claiming to be an old friend of yours. She requested a private audience.’

Robert stared at the woman, who was dressed in a plain gown, mostly covered by a patterned woollen cloak that swamped her thin frame. ‘Did she give her name?’

‘Brigid, sir. She said you would know her aunt. Affraig?’

Robert let out a surprised puff of breath at the name, focusing on the woman with new eyes. A lifetime ago, he had followed her through the bracken hills around Turnberry, trailing her to Affraig’s house. He had a vague memory of her crouching before him by the fire, the day he’d fallen from his horse, a cloth bunched in her hand to wipe the blood from his face. ‘Bring her here,’ he murmured.

He watched as she was led to him, his knights surrounding her. Brigid’s face became clearer as she approached, the skin stretched taut over the bones of her cheeks and jaw, strands of black hair drifting from beneath her hood. There was an echo of the strange, ratty-haired girl he had known in that gaunt face, but it was faint. The years had stripped any real familiarity. He motioned his men away when she came before him, but they didn’t stray far. Brigid had a sack bag slung over her shoulder and her shoes were caked with mud from the road.

She inclined her head. ‘Earl Robert.’

‘Brigid? What are you doing here?’ He frowned past her, wondering. ‘Is—’

‘My aunt isn’t with me,’ answered Brigid, before he could ask. Her Gaelic rang with the lilt of the west, reminding him of his mother. ‘She wanted to be here for your coronation, but she’s too frail for such a journey. She sent me in her stead.’ Brigid paused, cocking her head, her blue eyes liquid in the sunlight. ‘She wondered why you didn’t visit her in Turnberry in the winter.’

‘I wanted to,’ said Robert, the lie slipping easily from him, unlike the Gaelic which he hadn’t spoken for a long time. ‘But I had to be wary. I thought the English would come for me.’

In truth, he hadn’t wanted to see the old woman. A lot had changed since he had sat before her, asking her to weave his destiny. He had been young then and naïve, heady with the split from his father and King Edward, intoxicated by his newfound independence and his decision to be king. However solemn the ritual had seemed, events since had taught him the way of the world, had made a cynic of him. Spells and prayers did not mean what they once had. He thought of the black interior of that empty box, reflecting back on itself.

‘She would have liked to see you.’

‘Where is your husband?’ he asked, keen to change the subject. ‘You cannot have made the journey by yourself.’

‘Dead. The English raid on Ayr,’ she added, when his brow creased in question. ‘My boy too.’ Brigid held up her hand as Robert went to speak. ‘These are not stories for today. I have simply come to pay my family’s respects to our lord on the day of his crowning.’

‘Then stay with my blessing.’ Robert gestured to his knights, lingering close. ‘Escort the lady to the camp,’ he called. ‘Tell Nes to look after her.’ He hesitated as he looked back at Brigid, the prophecy box still in his mind. ‘Let us speak more after my coronation. I may have need of your aunt’s help in the coming weeks.’

‘Another destiny?’

‘No. Something else.’

As the knights led Brigid towards the encampment, Robert felt the urge to ask the question he’d avoided. ‘My destiny,’ he called at her back, thinking of the crown of heather and broom hanging in its web in Affraig’s tree. ‘Did it ever fall?’

Brigid looked round, the sunlight harsh on her face. ‘Not by the time I left, Sir Robert. Perhaps now?’

He laughed dryly in response, although he noticed her expression remained serious as she turned away. Robert watched her go. He wanted to believe, but these days he thought a man might make his own destiny.

They gathered in the burgeoning warmth of the March sunshine, crowding together on the Moot Hill, where countless Scots had stood before them to watch a new king made. Earls, ladies and knights in their finery were joined by monks from the abbey, their black habits switching in the breeze. William Lamberton’s strident voice carried across their ranks as he administered the oath of kingship.

In the centre of the crowd, Robert sat on the throne raised on the dais. He wore the jewelled vestments Wishart had brought from Glasgow, which smelled faintly of incense. An ermine-trimmed mantle had been placed about his shoulders by the Abbot of Scone and he had been handed a sceptre and girded with a sword, symbolising his authority and his pledge to defend his kingdom. Behind him, fluttering in the wind, was the royal standard, the red lion shifting on its golden ground. Beside him, seated on a cushioned chair set by the platform, was Elizabeth, dressed in white silk. Her hands were folded in her lap and her head was bowed. Robert couldn’t see her expression.

His gaze moved from his wife to Marjorie, standing at the front of the throng, white flowers threaded through her hair. Her little face, so very serious as she listened to the bishop’s words, made him want to smile. The rest of his family stood behind his daughter, his three sisters cutting dashing forms in their gowns and robes, his half-sister Margaret glowing with pride beside her unsmiling son. Robert’s gaze drifted over Niall and Edward. They were no doubt both aware of the possibility of his succession passing to them in future if he had no male heirs. Beyond them, comrades, vassals and supporters stretched away – a sea of faces. His subjects. Robert caught the gaze of James Stewart fleetingly, then looked away.

When Lamberton finished reading the oath, the bishop nodded to John of Atholl. The earl stepped aside revealing a tall woman dressed in a grey gown, a winter-white mantle falling from her shoulders. All eyes were on Isabel of Buchan as she moved tentatively towards the dais at a nod of encouragement from Atholl. In the countess’s hands was a gold circlet. As she approached, Robert noticed a bruise on her face, its darkness ugly against her pale beauty. He frowned, wondering if she’d had been injured during her abduction, but when they met last night Atholl had assured him she had been well cared for.

Isabel climbed on to the lower step of the dais, stretching out her arms towards his head. Her hands were shaking and she almost dropped the crown, causing a fretful murmur to rise from the crowd. Smiling, Robert leaned forward and lowered his head so she could better reach. Carefully, Isabel placed the circlet on his black hair. The crowd burst into loud applause, to the disapproval of the abbot who raised his hands for quiet. Expressing in a nod what he hoped would reveal some measure of his gratitude to Isabel, Robert sat back, feeling the crown’s new weight on his head.

The last part of the ceremony – the reading of the rolls – was then observed, the names of Scotland’s kings, from Kenneth MacAlpin, down through Macbeth and Malcolm Canmore to Alexander III and John Balliol, called out by a poet, whose voice rang clear across the hilltop. And with that, the ceremony was complete.

The monks began to usher people down the Moot Hill towards the church, where Lamberton was to say a High Mass, before the magnates retired to the abbey palace for a feast. As his friends and family came over to greet him, Robert smiled, but dismissed any attempts at conversation, going instead to Elizabeth. Taking her hand, he kissed it. As Elizabeth looked up at him, her face proud, but marble cold, Robert was struck by the woman she had become, overnight it seemed. He realised she was wearing the ivory cross her father had given to her. He hadn’t seen it in a long while. ‘Things will be different now,’ he told her. ‘I haven’t been the husband you deserve, but I will be the king you need.’

Elizabeth shook her head. ‘This is all a show, Robert. Child’s play.’ Her eyes went to the throne on the dais. ‘This ceremony. This ritual. You cannot become king in this way.’

Robert’s eyes narrowed at her words. ‘It may not be as I hoped it would, but my inauguration is, I assure you, no show. I am now king by ancient right, and you are queen.’

‘You aren’t here by right.’ Elizabeth’s tone hardened, though she kept her voice low as the crowds continued to file past, people laughing and talking. ‘You are here by revolution and murder. I know what you did in Dumfries. John Comyn’s blood is on your hands. Do you think the rest of the realm will follow you when they know what you’ve done? You will be half a king, unrecognised by half your subjects.’

Robert wondered if she had been talking to her uncle – whether James had put her up to this. ‘When the English come, the rest will soon acknowledge me. They will have little choice if they want to survive the war that is coming.’

‘And the Comyns?’

‘I am making plans to counter that threat.’ Robert exhaled his irritation and placed his hands on her shoulders. ‘You do not need to concern yourself, Elizabeth. I have many supporters, all ready and willing for this fight, and more being called each day. I believe we can stand against King Edward, even without the full support of the realm.’

‘King Edward is not the only one who will come for you.’ Some of the tension seemed to drain from her, her face filling with sorrow. ‘Humphrey will come for you. All those you called brothers back in England will come for you. My father too, most likely.’

‘I know this,’ Robert said quietly, pricked by the mention of Humphrey. His was a name he had tried in vain to forget these past months.

Elizabeth hesitated, then put a cool hand over his where it rested on her shoulder. ‘I am your wife, Robert. I have raised your daughter and kept your hearth warm these past four years. I will do my duty as your queen, that I promise, but I cannot trust in what you have done. Pride, my father told me, always comes before a fall.’ She lifted his hand and kissed it, before walking away down the hill to join the crowd heading for the church.

Robert watched her go, the doom in her words lingering in his mind as he stood on the Moot Hill in the spring sunlight, the crown of Scotland a cold hard band around his scalp.

The Border, Scotland, 1306 AD

The English advance was approaching the border. Before them the green swell of hills surrounding the town of Berwick was cut by the broad ribbon of the Tweed. At the head of the two-thousand-strong host of men rode Aymer de Valence. He sat at ease in the saddle of his warhorse, the fish-scale shimmer of mail beneath his surcoat. He wore an arming cap, but no helm, feeling no threat. The king had taken Berwick a decade ago, after three days of slaughter at the start of the war. It had been an English town ever since. Here, they would gather supplies and reinforcements, before heading deeper into Scotland to hunt down and capture Robert Bruce.

Behind Aymer was raised the blue and white standard of Pembroke, the earldom to which he was heir. It was dwarfed by the scarlet sweep of the dragon banner that he had ordered hoisted that morning as they came within sight of Scotland.

‘Sir!’

Aymer looked round to see one of his knights pointing to a ridge. Shielding his eyes from the sun, he followed the man’s gaze. There, on the crest, was a band of mounted men. As he watched more figures appeared on the ridge behind, most on foot. Several hundred strong, he calculated quickly, catching the glint of iron from helms and spearheads. At once, Valence turned and roared at his knights. Horns were lifted, blowing a warning to the rest of the company that snaked down the road behind, their length increased by a train of supply wagons. Men, roused to the danger, rushed to arm themselves, infantry hefting falchions, archers priming bows.

The mass of men above made no move as Valence and his knights formed up, wheeling their warhorses around.

Aymer’s brow creased as he drew his sword. ‘Why don’t they charge?’ he growled.

‘The churls must be scared, sir,’ answered one of his knights.

Aymer, thinking he was right, was about to lead his troops up the hillside in an attack, wondering if Bruce himself might even be among them, when the small band of horsemen came riding down. The foot soldiers maintained their position, high on the ridge.

‘Sir? Do we counter?’

Aymer’s eyes narrowed on the company. Above the riders was raised a blue standard with a white lion emblazoned on it. As they came closer, he realised none had weapons in their hands. His curiosity mounted. ‘Hold,’ he ordered his knights. ‘Do nothing until I say so.’

The horsemen came to a halt on the flower-speckled grass some distance from the road, where the English host was waiting, lined up along the verge, poised for battle.

‘Who are you?’ demanded Aymer, his shout echoing over the snorts of the horses. ‘What is your business here?’

‘My name is Dungal MacDouall,’ came a hard voice. ‘Captain of the army of Galloway, loyal servant to the late Sir John Comyn. I have been waiting for you. I seek an audience with King Edward on behalf of the mighty house of the Comyns and all their allies. We wish to affirm the vows of allegiance made at St Andrews and to pledge our swords to the fight against our shared enemy – the false king, Robert Bruce.’

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Although well documented in the main, there are gaps in our knowledge surrounding events of this period. Crafting a historical novel is rather like a dot-to-dot painting, where you have to connect what is already there with your own lines of interpretation. Furthermore, historical sources are often contradictory and while we may know who was doing what and when, we don’t often know why they were doing it. The challenge for the historical novelist is to answer that question and provide motivations for our characters. Combined with the fact that history can sometimes be too convoluted or protracted to satisfy in a novel, all these things necessitate a certain amount of filling in the blanks and altering or simplifying history for the sake of pace and plot. Here, I’ve set out the key changes to the facts and for those wishing to learn more on the period I’ve included a bibliography.