Insurrection: Renegade [02] (23 page)

James thought of Robert, no doubt in Westminster now. Had their plan been effective? Had Edward accepted his surrender? Or had that seed of hope already shrivelled and died in the cold stone of London’s Tower?

Chapter 18

Westminster, England, 1302 AD

The steward shouldered open the door. ‘Your lodgings, sir.’

Robert entered the chamber off the main room. Located on the upper floor of a building in an older part of the palace precinct, the lodgings granted to him and his men were cramped, but comfortable enough. The private chamber was crowded with a bed, a stool and a table on which stood a glazed basin and jug. The hearth was full of ash and the room was chilly, an icy draught filtering through the window.

‘I’ll have one of the servants light the fire,’ the steward assured him. He turned away and spoke to one of the pages who had accompanied the party from the hall.

Leaving his brother and Nes to deal with the arrangements, Robert closed the door. Forcing the bolt in place, he wrenched off his mantle and struggled out of his gambeson. His undershirt was soaked with sweat. All the way from the king’s hall to here, he had quelled his thoughts and emotions. Now, they surged through him like a fever, causing more sweat to break out on his brow and his whole body to shiver with suppressed energy. Grasping the glazed jug, Robert sloshed water into the basin and splashed his face. He stood, letting the water drip through his beard, as the heady concoction of relief, despair and anticipation coursed through him.

On the one hand he had gained back his beleaguered lands in Scotland and been accepted into Edward’s peace. On the other, there was no going back; no chance to abandon the steward’s plan, or renege on his promise to Ulster if the king now agreed to the earl’s proposal. He was here to stay, under the command of his new lord, to whom he would be expected to prove his loyalty with service. But even when faced with this reality, anticipation still crackled inside him as he thought of that expression on Edward’s face. Had he really seen it? Or was he just looking for it? No. He was certain. It was fear he had glimpsed in the king’s eyes when he had spoken of the crossbow bolt.

Dunluce, Ireland

1301 AD (6 months earlier)

Robert staggered along the narrow passageway, teeth bared in agony, one arm locked tight around James Stewart’s shoulder. Down in the bowels of Dunluce Castle, the dank air was sickly sweet with the perfume of incense, beneath which was an unpleasant odour of decay. Half in delirium, he felt as though he were entering some polluted underground church. Water ran in slimy rivulets down the rough walls, hewn out of the basalt. The torch held by one of the two guards in front of them guttered in draughts as they passed openings into storerooms. The boom of waves against the cliffs was ever present, as though a giant was pounding his fists upon the castle.

Sweat trickled into Robert’s mouth and stung his eyes, despite the fact it was freezing in the labyrinth of cellars. Since he’d struggled from his bed and stumbled through the castle at James’s side the linen over the wound in his shoulder had slowly turned a dark, slick red. The blood was now seeping through his shirt.

‘This is madness.’ The steward’s voice was strained with the effort of holding him upright. ‘We can wait. The coroner won’t arrive for another day or so. You’ll be stronger then.’

‘No,’ gasped Robert, the torch flames burning in his pupils. ‘I want to see him.’

‘How far?’ James asked the guards, cursing as he lurched into the passage wall.

‘Just past the ale cellar, sir. Ten yards.’

‘Won’t rats have got to him down here?’

‘Ranulf, one of Sir Richard’s huntsmen, has been guarding the body, sir.’

After passing a dark opening through which came a whiff of stale ale, another aperture opened, where the bloom of torchlight gleamed on the wet floor, spreading as their own light bled into it. Here, the incense was stronger, as was the odour of decay, a sweet, meaty smell that made Robert turn his head. The guards cupped hands over their mouths and nostrils as they ducked through the low opening. James followed, guiding Robert inside.

In the store beyond were several battered crates and barrels stacked against one wall. A torch sputtered in a bracket and smoke coiled through the holes of a censer set on a crate. On one of the barrels sat a burly man, whose mouth and nose were covered with a cloth mask. A black lymer lying on the floor next to him raised its head and growled. Ranulf the huntsman stood, eyes squinting in question as he saw James and Robert enter behind the guards.

As Ulster’s men crossed to speak with him, Robert saw a trestle by the far wall. On it was a long object wrapped in sackcloth, tied at one end. The stench of something rotting was pervasive, worming its way into his nose, filling his mouth and throat.

‘Well, you’ll see him if Earl Richard has allowed it,’ called Ranulf to Robert and James, his voice muffled through the cloth. ‘But, I warn you, the stink could bring the devil to his knees. He should have been in the ground days ago.’

James helped Robert limp to the trestle as the huntsman took a knife from his belt.

‘I’ll have to cut the shroud,’ Ranulf said testily. Pinching a handful of the sackcloth at the head of the body, he jabbed the blade through the material. ‘The flies got to him when he was being brought here on the cart,’ he added, splitting open the sack, ‘so the maggots are already feasting.’

As the sack was torn, the reek flooded the small chamber. Half blinded by the pain in his shoulder, Robert sagged against James, bile stinging his throat.

‘Mother of God,’ murmured the steward, twisting away from the foulness.

Ranulf stuck his knife back in his belt and parted the sack so the corpse was visible. Breathing only through his mouth, Robert stared at the man who had tried to kill him. His beard obscured the lower half of his face, but the olive tone of his skin was still notable, although it was now more of a sallow hue with liverish patches at the sides of his neck where he had lain on the cart in rigor. His lips were parted by his engorged tongue and Robert made out the movement of fat, creamy maggots inside. There were more worms feeding around the eyes.

Robert swallowed thickly. He felt nothing other than nausea. No pity, no anger, certainly no recognition. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, only that he had desperately wanted to see the body when James had told him it had been brought here by Ulster’s men. ‘How did he die?’

Ranulf pulled the sack down to reveal a hole in the throat. ‘A fine shot by one of Earl Richard’s knights.’ His tone was full of admiration.

Maggots had infested the arrow wound, the skin around it seeming to shift and flutter with their crawling. Robert swallowed again. His legs were shuddering, the bloodstain on his white shirt spreading.

‘That’s enough,’ James insisted. ‘I’m taking you back.’

But Robert had caught sight of the crossbow placed at the end of the trestle below the dead man’s feet. A pile of clothes, a mail coat and two leather bags were next to the weapon. ‘Did you find anything to identify him?’ he rasped, moving from James’s side, clutching the trestle to steady himself. ‘A seal? A mark of arms?’

‘Nothing,’ answered Ranulf, following as Robert stumbled to the crossbow.

‘He had a destrier,’ said Robert, a memory of the animal outside the barn coming back to him.

‘Our men found the horse,’ replied the huntsman. ‘But that was all there was,’ he added, glancing at the gear.

Robert ran a hand over the bow’s stave, which was criss-crossed with coloured cord. It was faded and worn as if the weapon had been well-used. Beside it was a basket of quarrels. One was lying on the trestle, the shaft broken in half. He picked up the head. It was stained with blood.

‘That’s what they pulled out of you.’

‘I’d like to keep it,’ Robert murmured.

Ranulf shrugged. ‘When the coroner’s been, maybe.’ His brow creased. ‘Don’t know why you’d want to.’

‘To remind me.’ Robert leaned heavily against the trestle and studied the bloody piece of iron that had almost ended his life. ‘To watch my back.’ He put it down after a moment, feeling utterly spent. ‘You’re right, James. There’s nothing here. I thought, with the horse and the bow . . .’ He trailed off. ‘But he must have just been another brigand, like you said.’

There was no answer.

Robert glanced at him. ‘James?’

The steward was staring at the dead man, a strange expression on his face. He turned suddenly to the two guards. They were standing by the entrance to the store, hands cupping their mouths. ‘Does Sir Richard have a barber here?’

They frowned in question. The one with the torch answered. ‘Of course, sir.’

‘Bring him here at once. With his tools.’ When the guard hesitated, James added sharply, ‘Did Earl Richard not order you to grant me whatever I need?’

The man looked to his comrade, who nodded.

‘What is it, James?’ asked Robert, as the guard ducked out.

The steward was staring at the corpse again. ‘I’m not sure.’ He shook his head and murmured, ‘It can’t be.’ But his face remained tense.

Robert hauled himself over to one of the barrels where he slumped, clutching his shoulder. He closed his eyes, the fog of incense and smell of decomposing flesh overwhelming. He rested his head on the icy wall behind him as his skin prickled with sweat.

‘Just the beard. That’s all I need removed.’

Robert opened his eyes. James and the huntsman were standing by the trestle with a third man, who was hastily tying a strip of linen around his nostrils. The barber, he guessed, wondering how long he’d been drifting in sleep.

The barber drew a pair of scissors from a pouch.

‘Careful now,’ Ranulf cautioned him, peering over his shoulder, ‘you don’t want the skin slipping off. He’s as ripe as bad fruit.’

Robert noticed the barber’s hands were shaking as he began to trim the beard. As he worked, James stood close by, eyes on the corpse. Once the beard was cropped back, the barber withdrew a bronze razor with a curved blade and jewelled handle. He paused, his hand hovering over the dead man’s stubble-rough chin. ‘I’ll not be able to use this again,’ he said tightly. ‘The Lord God alone knows what foul disease this body carries.’

‘I’ll compensate you for the loss,’ James said impatiently.

Robert licked his dry lips as the barber went to work, the room silent except for the scrape of the razor on skin and the muffled breathing of the guards. He wanted to know what James was thinking, but he could see the steward was too preoccupied to tell him. He guessed an answer would be forthcoming. The barber paused twice during the process, turning away to retch, eyes streaming in the torchlight. The lymer barked in response.

When the beard was removed, James stood for some moments, staring at the dead man. ‘I need to speak with Sir Robert alone.’

Ranulf frowned, but when the steward looked up at him something in his face must have told the huntsman he meant it, for he turned and headed to the door, the lymer following. The barber gathered up his tools and hastened after him.

When the guards left, the high steward turned to Robert. ‘I know this man,’ he said quietly. He had taken his hand from his mouth.

Robert tried to stand, but sank back when pain almost caused him to black out.

‘Don’t,’ said James, crossing to him and placing a hand on his good shoulder. ‘There’s no need to see. You won’t know him.’

‘Who is he?’

‘I’m certain his name is Adam. He was a servant to Queen Yolande. He came to Edinburgh in her retinue from France when she married Alexander.’ James looked back at the corpse. ‘He was with the king the night he died, on the road to Kinghorn.’

Robert stared up at him. ‘What would a former royal servant be doing in Ireland? And why would he try to kill me? It makes no sense.’

‘Unless he was sent here.’

Robert leaned against the wall, his shirt sticking to his skin. ‘Sent by whom? Who would even know where I was?’

‘Ulster’s men knew. They guessed you would pass through that settlement. Maybe he was following them? Maybe . . .’ James swept a hand through his hair and began to pace, his usual calm vanished. ‘Perhaps Adam fell on hard times after the death of King Alexander, lost his position under the queen and took up as a mercenary?’ His eyes went to the crossbow. ‘The weapon would suggest it. Then an enemy of yours paid him to hunt you down.’

‘A servant turned mercenary? James, I watched him load that crossbow. It was second nature. What if he never was a servant?’

‘What do you mean?’

Robert fought to think through the fog of pain. ‘From what I know of that night the king got separated from his men in the storm and went over the cliff in the darkness.’

James nodded, his face tightening.

‘Suppose that wasn’t an accident?’ Robert looked over at the corpse. ‘Suppose he had something to do with it?’ He watched the steward shake his head, but saw the lack of conviction in the denial. ‘You must have thought something like this when you recognised him. I saw the shock in your face.’