Insurrection (47 page)

Robert’s gaze lingered on his father, whose yellow surcoat, adorned with a red banded cross, was garish in the sunlight, his mail hauberk polished to a glittery gleam. Despite the heat, he wore a mantle of fine Flemish cloth over his surcoat and mail, lined in red silk. He was sweating profusely, lines of perspiration dribbling down his face. Above him, the standard of Annandale was hoisted high. He had made his banner-bearer carry it through every town and village they had passed, from Lochmaben to the north-east coast, as if on some royal progress. Robert wore the arms of Carrick on his surcoat, but bore no standard, his banner curled around its shaft on the back of one of the wagons. As his father spoke these words, he sensed his brother trying to catch his eye, but knowing what Edward was trying to communicate with that look, he remained gazing straight ahead.

As they continued, advancing through midday into early afternoon, a large lagoon opened before them. Between this lagoon and the North Sea was the town of Montrose, rising from a strip of sand, the buildings overlooked by a squat castle. Beyond the castle walls, where scrubby fields edged into grey dunes, many tents had been erected in a colourful sea of canvas. In the midst of the tents was a large wooden platform, which looked like a stage.

In Montrose, the streets were packed with English knights and soldiers. Riding through the crowds, most of the men Robert heard speaking were English, their accents suggesting a multitude of localities from which they had travelled to converge on this Scottish port. A few spoke Irish, which gave him faint recollections of Antrim. Others spoke Welsh, provoking more recent memories. A fight erupted outside a ramshackle inn as the company passed, one soldier punching another, before being set upon. Some men moved to stop the brawl, more cheered it on. There was a sense of indolence among the soldiery who thronged these streets, gorging themselves on food and ale, yelling for songs from minstrels and fools. These weren’t men exhausted by a hard campaign, celebrating a victory well won. They were revellers at a feast day. It was a very different scene from the one Robert had witnessed after the campaign in Wales. How had this happened so quickly? How had Scotland fallen so easily? It was shocking to think of it.

Winding their way through the streets they came at last to the castle, where a scarlet banner emblazoned with three golden lions flew from the tower. The gates were closed and four guards, dressed in the king’s colours, stood outside, leaning on pikes. One came forward, crossing the bridge that spanned a ditch, as the Lord of Annandale approached.

‘Good day,’ he called, his eyes on the banner raised above the company. ‘What is your business?’

As Robert’s father gestured, one of his knights rode forward.

‘Sir Robert Bruce, Lord of Annandale, has arrived. He wishes to speak with King Edward.’

‘The lord king is in council,’ answered the guard.

Robert noticed his father’s face twitch with irritation.

The Bruce urged his white mare towards the guard. ‘King Edward summoned me here to meet with him on an urgent matter. I am sure he will see me.’

‘My orders were to allow entry only to those whose names I was given. Yours, sir, was not among them. I suggest you make camp with the other men the king has summoned here. No doubt he will send for you when he is ready.’ With that, the guard headed back across the bridge.

As the lord wheeled his mare roughly around, Robert took in his humiliation with a stab of gratification. The Bruce blustered off the rebuke and led the way towards the encampment of tents, a grimace splitting his flushed face.

There wasn’t much room left in the fields beyond the castle walls, the tents stretching all the way to the sand dunes, and they were forced to spread out on a patch of ground close to the stinking mud-banks of the lagoon, where the air was full of the shrieks of birds. As the knights dismounted, the servants set about removing tents and equipment from the wagons. Several headed off in search of water for the horses, while others dug pits for fires and latrines. Robert went to the back of one wagon as two servants carried off a large wooden cage. Inside was his hound, Uathach. On his return to Scotland the summer before, he had rekindled his affection for the young bitch, the pup of his grandfather’s favourite. She reminded him of the old man and his old life. ‘Fetch me her leash,’ he told one of the servants.

The servant rifled through a hunting bag, while the other opened the cage. Uathach uncurled and moved, snake-like, through the cage door. She was tall, almost up to his hip, lean-limbed and smoke-coloured like her mother. She came straight to Robert, her tongue out, panting. He took the leash from the servant and fixed it to her collar. Unlike his father’s dogs, that had silk leashes, Uathach’s gear was of soft brown leather. His grandfather had always been scornful of men who adorned their hounds with pretty tethers, saying such frippery was for fools with more money than wit. Binding the leash around his hand to keep the bitch close, Robert moved off through the rows of tents, leaving the servants to unpack and Katherine to place his wailing daughter in Judith’s outstretched hands for a feed. He hadn’t gone far when Edward came jogging up behind him.

‘Where are you going, brother?’

‘Uathach needs to relieve herself. As do I.’ Without waiting for a response, Robert carried on. He didn’t want another argument.

‘You’re not going to speak to him, are you? You’re going to keep on avoiding him until it is too late and the choice is taken from you.’

Robert halted. Turning, he met his brother’s challenging stare. ‘Why can’t you leave it be?’

Edward shook his head, incredulous. ‘Leave it be?’ He strode up to Robert. ‘It is the future of our kingdom we are speaking about! You have a chance to make right the wrongs of these past months. Why, in God’s name, will you not seize it?’

‘We know nothing of King Edward’s intentions. The summons was unclear. How can I seize something that hasn’t been made real? How can—?’

‘Tomorrow,’ Edward cut across him, ‘John Balliol will be formally deposed. Our father believes he is going to take his place as King of Scotland. It is what he came here for. But the right to lay claim to the throne was passed from our grandfather to you, the day you inherited Carrick. Why haven’t you confronted him?’

‘Why does this even trouble you?’ Robert demanded, the heat and his tiredness fraying his temper. ‘It is better for you if he does become king. If I died first, you would be his heir.’

Edward shook his head and turned away. ‘I want to see our realm at peace again, brother. I don’t want to fight my countrymen any more. It has sickened me, this war. Our father . . .’ He paused, his brow furrowing. ‘He might have been born a Scot, but his veins run with English blood. Already, our mother’s tongue is disappearing from our lands and the ways and customs of our ancestors, held dear by our grandfather, are fading. Our father would quicken that passing. As king he would create a court in the shadow of Westminster, subservient to King Edward. Our kingdom would have less independence than it did under Balliol.’

Robert stared at his brother. Rarely had he heard him speak so earnestly. ‘What makes you believe I would be any different?’

‘I still hope you might see through your mistakes.’

Robert knew his brother meant his association with the Knights of the Dragon. ‘We don’t know what the king is planning, or whether he will even offer the throne.’ His voice hardened. ‘I will not tear our family apart fighting for a fantasy, God damn it!’

This time, as he walked away, his brother made no move to follow. Robert kept going, past groups of soldiers lounging in the hot sun, drinking, sleeping. Others crowded around trestles erected under canopies, while servants brought them food. He saw a few banners he recognised, strung from the sides of tents and wondered who was here. The face of Aymer de Valence leered in his mind until he forced it away, striding purposefully over the sand dunes towards the sea, Uathach trotting at his side.

The sea was golden in the afternoon sun, waves whispering over the sand. The breeze coming off the water dried the sweat on Robert’s face as he sat, letting Uathach off the leash. The bitch bounded down to the water, leaping like a deer into the waves. There were a few fishing boats pulled up on the sand. Some way past the boats servants were cleaning out pots and pans in a stream that ran down into the surf. Uathach raced excitedly in their direction, but Robert called her back to his side with a sharp whistle. As the bitch flopped obediently beside him, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He stared out to sea, its blue serenity at odds with the turmoil in his mind.

Ever since their father had been awarded the governorship of Carlisle, he had been hinting at the prospect that if Edward won the war, he would make him king. Now, the English had won and tomorrow Balliol would be deposed. Robert was grateful their lands had been restored to them and satisfied by the fate of Balliol and the hated Comyns, but riding through the lands of his birth, seeing his countrymen subdued and humiliated, he had felt like an invader, as despised as King Edward and his soldiers. Did he want to be king of a people who loathed him? And what of the throne itself? He had seen for himself Edward’s attempts to control it over the past six years, first with the proposed marriage of Margaret and his heir, then through his interference in Balliol’s reign. Now that Edward had taken the kingdom by force any man he set up in Balliol’s place would be nothing more than an obedient vassal on the end of a very tight cord. Was it not, Robert reasoned, better to be a trusted warrior in the king’s elite, than his puppet on a shackled throne?

As he sat there, his grandfather’s voice sounded, harsh in his thoughts, asking if centuries of history would end with him: if Alexander and David, and Malcolm Canmore had fought and bled for their kingdom, only to have him yield it without a struggle? In his mind, Robert saw a vast tree standing on a hillside. It was withered and dying, its proud branches blackened with rot that was seeping down through the great trunk, into its roots. You caused this, his grandfather’s voice told him.
You were the death of our heritage
.

‘What do you want from me?’ Robert shouted suddenly, pushing himself to his feet.

Uathach barked at the anger in his voice and the servants washing the pans looked over. Robert strode down to the water’s edge, pushing his hands hard through his hair. In four short years, his family’s place in the world had changed beyond recognition. They had lost the fight for the throne, their power in the realm and most of their former allies. He had lost his mother, his grandfather and his wife in rapid succession, then had suffered the trauma of fighting a war against his own people. With the victory, he could only taste the bitterness of their defeat. Somewhere up in the clouds of heaven, St Malachy was surely laughing.

‘Sir Robert?’

He turned abruptly at the call to see a tall young man in a blue silk surcoat crossing the dunes towards him. Humphrey de Bohun’s sun-browned face split in a wide grin. At the sight of his friend, Robert felt a great wash of relief. His grandfather’s accusations and the image of the withered tree faded as he headed up the beach to meet him. They embraced, Humphrey laughing as Robert hugged him fiercely.

‘I saw your standard going up in the camp,’ he said, pulling back. ‘Your brother told me you were here.’ Humphrey glanced down as Uathach nosed him. ‘Is this your hound? She’s beautiful.’

‘How long have you been in Montrose?’ Robert had been hoping the knight would be here, for he had sorely missed the young man’s friendship. Just seeing him felt like being back in London that summer, training on the practice ground, feasting in the Tower. As if the past year hadn’t happened.

‘Only a few days. We came up from Perth.’

‘Were you at Berwick?’

Humphrey’s grin faded. He looked out to sea, then turned back to Robert with a forced smile. ‘Let us not speak of battles now the war is over. Tell me of yourself. Everything! Where is your pretty wife? Is she here? I cannot wait to meet her.’

‘Isobel died four months ago at Carlisle,’ said Robert, after a pause, ‘giving birth to our daughter.’

Humphrey’s face fell. He clasped Robert’s shoulder. ‘My friend, I—’

Robert waved away the apology before it could be uttered. He felt undeserving of sympathy when he had grieved comparatively little. ‘She was a good woman. A good wife. But we were together only for a year and what with the troubles and then the war we did not see one another often. In truth, I didn’t know her very well. I . . .’ Robert faltered. He hadn’t spoken to anyone of this. ‘I do miss her,’ he admitted, ‘but more for the sake of our child than for myself.’

Humphrey nodded.

They stood in silence, watching the waves crash into the sand, their faces sun-dark and rough with stubble. After a time, Robert went to speak, but the knight beat him to it.

‘I am glad you’re here, Robert,’ Humphrey said, turning to him. ‘For I would welcome your help.’

‘Of course. With what?’

‘There is something King Edward needs the Knights of the Dragon to accomplish. A special task. I want you to join us.’

‘What is this task?’

They turned, hearing a call, to see Edward Bruce crossing the dunes towards them.

‘We will speak later,’ said Humphrey, looking back at Robert. He smiled and grasped his shoulder. ‘It is good to see you, my friend.’

‘And you.’