Worth Dying For (The Bruce Trilogy) (29 page)

The scent of rain lingered in the air that June day. Clouds scraped the distant hills, the hollow roar of thunder echoing over the moors. From the highest window of the King’s Tower, I gazed down upon York. People straggled over the mired streets like beetles amid the mud flats, hawked their wares from crowded stalls, and waited their turn at the city gates before passing through. A gust of wind carried the perpetual stench of sheep manure. My gaze passed over the verdant fields dotted with white beyond the city’s walls and along the southern road.

There, a small group of riders, perhaps ten men, advanced swiftly. My heart hammered at the sight. The sun, which had not shone for three days, broke through a bank of clouds to the west and glinted off their plate armor. Cloaks heavy with rain hung from their shoulders, but before them a bright pennon occasionally lifted with the breeze. The colors were those of my nephew, Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester.

I withdrew from the window. My back against the wall, I pressed my palms flat against the stones.

Sitting on a padded stool at the other window, Isabella looked up from the book resting on the slight mound of her belly: a copy of a romance by Chrétien de Troyes, the leather straps of its spine loose from wear. She drew her finger from the page, marked it with a red silk ribbon and set the book on the floor. “Edward, what is it?”

“Gilbert is coming.” Dare I to dream that some miracle had begun to play itself out whilst I rotted in this cloistered wasteland, robbed of hope? Surely, if they meant to force me to yet more impossible terms, it would have been Lancaster or one of his Hell Hounds bearing down upon me now, not my staunch companion and kinsman Gilbert?

For once, let the tidings be good. Merciful Lord, end this interminable agony. Let it be done.

Arms outstretched, Isabella started toward me, but I held a hand up to stay her. The minutes dragged by like days spent imprisoned and awaiting death. Eyes shut tight, breath held, I touched a shaking hand to my abdomen, searching for some indication, some presentiment, of what was to come. But I felt nothing. Nothing but an absence of what once was.

A rap at the door stilled my heart momentarily. My hand flew to the knife sheathed at my belt. Another knock and my heart began with a thud, each pulse of blood slower and heavier than the one before. Jankin nudged open the door. Gilbert shoved his way past my manservant and then came... the Earl of Pembroke, Aymer de Valance. In one heartbeat, my dread turned to malice.

How could you...
you
, of all those once faithful to me, join with
them
? For your own sake, Aymer, I pray you did this to circumvent an even greater tragedy, that somehow you will now redeem yourself.

Pembroke doffed his mail hood, his black hair matted with sweat, and tossed it to Jankin before bending a knee to me. Jankin scuttled out, leaving the door open a crack.

“Why are
you
here?” I demanded of Pembroke, my voice clogged with enmity. The urge to hurl myself at him to tear the flesh from his bones with my bare hands was almost overwhelming. My fingernails scraped at mortar, seeking anchor. “Tell me that you have set Piers free. That he awaits me somewhere secreted. Or, at the very least, that he is safe at Wallingford, as agreed.”

Shifting on his feet, Gilbert glanced at Pembroke, who had not yet raised his eyes. They were but shadows of omen beneath his Moorish-dark brows. He stood, one hand flexing around empty air. His mouth opened, but no answer came from it.

“Tell me what has happened to him, Aymer,” I said. “Look at me, damn you! Say what has become of him!”

He drew breath, pulled his shoulders back and slowly looked up. “My king, I will not discuss matters of politics now, but it was better, I reasoned, to join with them and temper Lancaster’s fury, than allow it to blaze untended. When I learned of Gaveston’s whereabouts, I insisted on being the one to lead the siege. As you know, Gaveston gave himself freely unto my custody at Scarborough. I assure you, I am a man of my word and have never –”

“Already you feel the need to excuse yourself? This bodes ill of your involvement, Aymer, whatever it is. Get on with it. Tell me the truth, the pith of it.”

He jerked his chin up. His cheeks and neck, usually neatly shaven, were shadowed by black stubble. “I had pressed the journey, wanting to place Lord Gaveston securely at Wallingford as soon as possible. We were near Deddington when he begged for rest. Early that evening, I complied and left him under guard at the church there, and went to nearby Bampton to see my wife. I swear – I did not know that Guy de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, had been following us closely.” He glanced at Isabella, as if he had not noticed her before. Perhaps he hadn’t. “At Warwick, Beauchamp was joined by Hereford and Lancaster. While they conspired, Gaveston was dragged from his bed at midnight and led to a place called Blacklow Hill, where he was... was executed.”

“No, no... tell me that is a lie,” I insisted. “They have sent him away again. That is all.”

Haltingly, Pembroke approached me and extended a gilt chain. At its end dangled the lion pendant, eyes as red as blood. With a trembling hand, I took it from him. It was indeed the pendant I had given Piers at Dover. But it was heavier than I recalled, its surface scuffed from years of wear and the facets of the jewels dulled with a fine layer of dirt.

A chill gripped my spine and flushed the breath from my lungs with a forceful suddenness. “H-h-how?”

“Not by a traitor’s rope, but by the sword. It is small consolation, I know, but the end came quickly for him.”

Quickly?
He would have been stricken with terror as his black-hooded executioner forced his head down upon some weathered tree stump, flinched as the mortal whisper of the sword descended. I wrapped my arms around myself and slid to the floor, the stones snagging at my clothes.

“Edward?” Gilbert’s voice came to me as if muffled by a heavy rain. I glanced at the window, but the sun poured through harsh and hot. Feet shuffled. I looked up at Gilbert, who stood leaning forward before me, wringing his hands. He shook his head solemnly. “Edward, it is true. His body has been returned to Gloucester, though they could not give him a Christian burial. Lords Pembroke and Warenne came to me at once, irate at what Lancaster had done. They are guilty of nothing more than passing carelessness. They are not to –”

“Passing carelessness? Had they not been so careless, so... so bloody
incompetent
” – rising again to my feet, I swayed on watery knees – the pendant clenched so tightly in my left hand it pierced my palm – and threw a hand to the wall to steady myself – “then Piers would not be
dead
– if he indeed is. Oh, but you would want him dead, every one of you. You conjured falsities and embellished on every misstep he or I ever made, while you rallied against us to raise yourselves up. Upon God’s soul, this is a grievous happening: for Piers, for me, for all of England. How can you, Gilbert, stand in league with these warring demons? Piers swore to me he would not surrender, that he would wait for me to return. He was unwitting, for he trusted Lord Pembroke to keep him safe. But Pembroke failed – or turned a blind eye while –”

“I swear to you,” Pembroke interrupted, striding past Isabella and coming toward me, “I knew nothing of their plans!”

“Who
am
I to trust?! Should I trust you now, just as Piers did?” I shoved Pembroke away and rounded on Gilbert. “You all lie to me. You always have, like it is some perpetual joke you all take part in. You betray me and abandon me and leave me with nothing. Nothing! Now go from here – both of you!” I drew my knife and slashed at the air. Gilbert stumbled backward, bumping Pembroke’s shoulder. The jeweled hilt lay rough in my uncalloused grip. “Go – or I will kill two more people I thought I once loved. Piers is already dead. The two of you are nothing to me anymore. Dead would make no difference, nor the fate of my condemned soul.”

Pembroke grabbed Gilbert by the arm then and pulled him from the room. He knew when to claim his exit and save his own life.

Alone with Isabella, I lowered the knife, my hand trembling so violently I fought not to drop it. This time, she did not widen her arms to embrace me, but waited, her head down, fingers laced together beneath her rounded middle. Slipping the knife back into its sheath, I went to the window and lay my hands flat upon the ledge. The pendant fell to the floor, but I made no effort to retrieve it. “Go, Isabella. There is nothing you or anyone can do for me now.”

Several moments passed and I heard neither movement nor response. Finally, her slippered feet brushed over the planks of the floor. The door latch clicked and without looking I knew I was alone now. I braced my hands on either side of the window and climbed up to stand on the ledge. My legs threatened to fold beneath me. The buildings of York, the scattered clouds, and the hills beyond tipped dizzily and blurred together. It would have been so easy to cast myself upon the courtyard stones, far below. I wanted to. For a long, long time, I contemplated it. What point in remaining here, to live as a lamb among hungering wolves? What point to live at all? One step forward, one slight lean, and I would suffer no more. Then, Piers and I could be together forever. Never again parted.

Lifting my head, I uncurled my fingers from the window’s edge and drew one more breath. One final pull of this life’s essence, this life’s pain. I closed my eyes to the world, the fire of the sun burning my face, the wind beckoning.

No, my death would give them too much satisfaction. Pembroke would be free of his guilt. Lancaster would snatch the crown from my brothers and my unborn child. Bruce would run rampant in his heathen glee. And my sire... If I killed myself I would only prove the hateful bastard right.

Revenge must be my reason to go on living. Paradise must wait.

On my life and my crown, I will avenge thee, my beloved Brother Perrot. When the truth is out, the guilty will pay. And all their family and supporters will go down with them in pools of blood and burning flesh.

I opened my eyes to see a small crowd gathering in the courtyard below, faces upturned and mouths agape. Their voices buzzed faintly like hornets gathering at the nest. Sinners, all of them. “What sickness lives in the world, Piers. Our transgressions were trivial compared to what they have done to you and me. Oh, how they have judged and scorned us. They may condemn us for the physical act from now until eternity if they please, but you were right. It is the depth of our love they have failed to understand – for I will always,
always
love you, much to my own ruin. The pity of it, eh?”

I spit out over the ledge and stepped back inside. Then, I lay down, my cheek to the floor, my fingers stroking the pendant, and wept until my eyes were sore and dry of sorrow.

On the 12
^th
of November, Queen Isabella delivered a healthy son. We named him Edward, so that long after I was gone my own flesh and my own name would remain to rule over those who had so viciously defied me.

Pembroke groveled as much as he could bring himself to do. Still swallowed by grief, I bided my time. If Lancaster and Warwick meant to bring me down, their act only served to soften public opinion toward my plight. With the arrival of my heir, their star was falling toward earth in ashes.

Ch. 29

Robert the Bruce – Perth, 1313

Seven years had lapsed since I was crowned at Scone. Still the English held several key castles. With the money now to feed our troops and arm them, our tactics were soon to change. By siege or stealth, we would gain those fortresses back and make sure the English never took them again.

Leaving Randolph to surround Perth and starve them out, James and I rode on to Berwick. In the pale starlight of a December night, we stole upon its walls and with our spears raised two hemp ladders. Berwick had a special meaning to James, being the place where he first glimpsed Longshanks’ savagery and saw his father fall a prisoner into the English king’s hands. What a splendid prize that would have been, but a dog wandering loose beyond the castle barked as we hooked the top of our hemp ladder over the wall. In less than a minute, barely enough time for us to run beyond bowshot, the entire garrison was on the ramparts. Our plan was thwarted.

Since we could not snatch Berwick up, we wore away at Perth. James and I returned there to join Gil and Randolph. For six tedious weeks, we sat outside its walls, alternately freezing near to death under piles of snow or drowning in endless deluges of rain. Daylight was fleeting and so dicing by campfire was the most popular form of entertainment, seconded only by the scraping of mud from boots and the wringing out of cloaks. Little happened but that we traded volleys of arrows and insults with the English garrison. This time, at least, the Earl of Pembroke was not inside, but Sir William Oliphant who had once held out at Stirling while Longshanks mercilessly pummeled its walls with his great siege engines. Years in prison had convinced him be was better off fighting for England than dead.

I paced the stubbled cornfield between our encampment and Perth’s towered walls. I had called together several of my men to consult – Alexander Lindsay, Gil, Boyd, James and Randolph. On three sides, Perth was protected by a deep moat and on the other by the River Tay. As I pounded a gauntleted fist in my palm, a crowd of starlings shot up and settled further away, protesting the disturbance. I turned to Randolph.

“Do they weaken?” I asked. “Any sign?”

“I don’t think so.” Randolph narrowed his blue eyes as he looked out over the sheen of drifted snow lying across the field. A weak afternoon sun struggled behind racing clouds that had begun to spit out more snow. “All is quiet inside. Normal, but for the seclusion. No word comes out. None has gone in.”

“The church bells of St. John’s toll the hours daily,” Lindsay observed, “children play, people go about what business they can, and the roosters herald every blessed morn.”