Insurrection: Renegade [02] (25 page)

Humphrey said nothing; he didn’t trust himself to.

‘One last thing, Humphrey. In seeking Bruce’s friendship, I want you to find out what happened to him in Ireland. He said he was wounded by a crossbow bolt. I want to know who his attacker was and whether or not they are still alive.’

Humphrey’s brow furrowed as the king moved out from behind the desk. ‘Can I ask why, my lord?’

The king went to the long table to pour a goblet of wine. Above him on the wall, Tranquillity pressed her painted foot down on the hunched body of Anger, a switch in her virtuous hand as she prepared to lash the Vice.

‘I simply want to know all that led him to the point of surrender,’ finished Edward, taking a draught of wine. ‘Do you understand?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Who attacked him, Humphrey. And whether or not they are still alive.’

Robert followed the usher along the passageway, his brother and two squires behind him. Music and the din of conversation and laughter spilled down the corridor. He was glad of the change of scene, having mostly been confined to his quarters for the past few days while he awaited the king’s decision on Ulster’s proposition. With the walls closing in at the prospect of that fate, he’d had plenty of time to think, frustratingly close to the abbey and that sealed box. He was desperate to see the king again; to search his face for sign of the great sin he believed lay behind those pale eyes. Finally, that morning, when he was as taut and stretched as a thread on a loom, Robert was told he would be the king’s guest at a feast that evening.

Ahead, double doors opened into the White Hall. The cacophony of voices assailed Robert, along with a welcome pulse of heat, which melted the last of the evening’s chill. The chamber’s walls and most of the furnishings were white. It was starkly, coldly beautiful; a winter palace of a room, adorned with tapestries in ivory and silver, depicting a unicorn being pursued by knights. The quest began with huntsmen and dogs tracking through snow, and the chase, which followed across several tapestries, ended in the death and unmaking. Here the unicorn, felled by one bold knight, became a woman, lying prone beneath snow-laden trees.

At the far end of the hall was a gallery with doorways set between carved wooden panels, through which servants came and went. The gallery was topped with a platform where the heads of minstrels could just be seen. The metallic notes of a harp and the thud of a drum were joined by the high voices of two young men. They were singing the deeds of Sir Perceval and his search for the Grail. Their words soared across the beams of the chamber, while below was a scene to rival any from Camelot.

Two long trestles faced one another across the hall, covered with white linen and flanked by cushioned benches. The benches were packed with lords and ladies attired in velvet tunics and feathered caps, satin gowns and veils. The flames of beeswax candles were reflected in the curved surfaces of silver bowls and goblets. As the last few guests entered the hall, Robert and his men among them, the servants were already bringing out dishes of lampreys swimming in juices, salvers laden with porpoise and boar, and pies crammed with the bodies of birds.

For a fleeting moment, Robert was back in his grandfather’s hall at Lochmaben, enveloped by the warmth of laughter and song; smelling the roasted meat of the hart he had hunted with the old lord, listening to the rise and fall of bagpipes, seeing his grandfather’s eyes sparkle with contentment as he watched his men bask in the glow of his hospitality. The illusion was shattered as his gaze came to rest on the hall’s top table. There sat King Edward, in a splendid dove-white robe, trimmed with ermine. His young queen was to the left of him, Richard de Burgh to the right.

As the usher led him inside, Robert felt the stares of several hundred men and women turn on him. In the periphery of his vision he saw a sea of flushed faces, red mouths opening as lords murmured to their neighbours, greasy fingers poised in the act of clutching goblet or bone. Among curious glances and looks of disdain were stares of hatred. The men of the Round Table, who had once been his brothers as Knights of the Dragon in apprenticeship to Edward’s inner circle, were all present, their contempt for him as flagrant as a blow.

Robert rested his hand on his belt, near to the place where his broadsword would normally be. His grandfather’s blade, returned to him by Ulster, was in his lodgings. No man was permitted to come armed into the king’s hall, let alone one who, until a few days ago, was deemed a traitor. With the lords and earls were noble ladies, among them Joan de Valence, Aymer’s sister and wife of John Comyn. She had borne Comyn two children while he was in Edward’s peace, but when he rebelled Joan and their offspring were ordered back to England by the king. In the weave of the tapestries beyond, Robert glimpsed the faces of wolves in the woven forests.

His brother and squires were directed to a nearby trestle, as the usher motioned him to the king’s table. Climbing the dais steps alone, Robert heard his brother give a sharp intake of breath, but didn’t look back to see what had caused it. He came to stand before the king and bowed, the thought that all here present might have been taken in by this man’s grand and gilded lie filling his mind. He wanted to shout, to tell them their beloved king might have fooled them all. ‘My lord.’

Edward met his gaze, his own eyes boring into Robert, as if searching for something in his face. After a pause, he spoke. ‘You may sit.’

Robert straightened and walked the length of the table to the space at the end. He passed Humphrey de Bohun, who didn’t look at him, but turned instead to talk to the young woman beside him. Tall and slender, she wore an ethereal gown of pearl-white samite, the only thing of colour about her the blush of wine in her cheeks. She nodded at something Humphrey said, but followed Robert with cool, appraising eyes. It was Bess, the king’s youngest daughter. She looked very different to the mischievous young princess who had stuffed the token in Helena de Beauchamp’s hand and pushed her towards him years ago on the tournament field. Robert noticed one of her hands was placed over Humphrey’s. On Bess’s other side sat Elizabeth de Burgh.

Ulster’s daughter was barely recognisable from the bedraggled girl who had trailed across Ireland with him only months ago. Slight of build in an ivory dress, her black hair bound up beneath a net of silver, she still had a fragility about her, but it was softer, less brittle. Almost seventeen, she was a girl on the cusp of womanhood. She didn’t meet his gaze, but kept her head bowed as he passed. Robert felt his blood rush, thinking fate – and her father – had a merciless sense of humour. Moving on, past Bishop Bek and an old man huddled in a cream cloak, he took up his place at the table’s end. As a servant slipped in to fill his goblet, Robert realised that the old man in the cloak was staring at him. The shock of recognition was a shard of ice through his heart. The man was his father.

In the six years since Robert had seen him last the Lord of Annandale’s black hair had grown grizzled and thin. There was a patch of scalp visible on his crown, like a monk’s tonsure. His nose was webbed with veins and his skin had sagged around his chin and neck. His once broad, muscular frame had turned to fat, the voluminous cloak scarcely concealing the paunch. But the eyes, those glacial blue eyes, were the same. In them Robert saw a hundred disappointments, a thousand regrets. His father’s fist was gripped tight around a goblet of wine. His eyes narrowed on Robert, welling with resentment and accusation. He opened his mouth and went to speak, but then the king was rising and the occupants of the hall quietening, until only the footfalls of the servants and clatter of spoons could be heard. The Lord of Annandale said nothing, raising the wine to his lips instead.

‘Tonight, we celebrate the betrothal of my dear daughter Elizabeth to Earl Humphrey.’ King Edward paused to allow the cheers.

Dimly, Robert noticed his brother at the trestle below staring up at their father, his face frozen in shock. Picking up his wine, he realised his hand was trembling. As the king continued, Robert barely heard a word.

‘We also celebrate the forthcoming marriage of Lady Elizabeth de Burgh, daughter of the Earl of Ulster, to Sir Robert Bruce.’

Chapter 20

Near Turnberry, Scotland, 1302 AD

The figures drew closer, wrapped in patterned woollen hukes. The older of the two was struggling through the slush, while the younger carried two pails. Affraig stepped down to meet them, blinking in the wind that caused the boughs of the oak to creak and sigh. The branches, adorned with their slow-turning webs, were as bare as antlers. She noticed the older man glance up as he passed beneath and make the sign of the cross. There was a time when she would have challenged him, sneering at his ritual when his faith was clearly so feeble he felt the need to come to her. She had always revelled in the power she had over the village folk, desperate or resentful when pleas to their God went unanswered. Now, she let it pass. A prayer was a prayer.

‘Angus,’ she greeted gruffly. ‘What do you have for me?’

‘Milk and eggs,’ wheezed Angus, his face chapped by the wind. ‘And Ade skinned you three coneys, if you’ll do us another charm for little Mary.’ There was a beseeching look in his watery eyes. ‘She’s come down with a fever again. Worse than last.’

Affraig felt a spark of anger, although she didn’t know why. ‘Put them by the door,’ she said testily to the lanky youth holding the pails. When he crossed to the house, she pulled out a pouch looped through her belt and handed it to Angus. ‘Your wife’s herbs.’ As he took it, she added, ‘Take your family back to the village. Your daughter needs the warm and dry. Charms can only do so much. The body must be cared for as much as the soul.’

Angus was already shaking his head. ‘They’re fools, them who’ve gone back there. Where’s the use rebuilding homes or sowing the ground with seed, only for the English dogs to burn it all again? No,’ he said firmly, his eyes on his skinny son who returned to his side. ‘We’ll be safer in the woods with the others. We’ve built shelters to keep off the worst of the wet and we’re sharing the livestock we saved. There’s talk of going north into the mountains when the thaw comes, where the knights and their warhorses can’t follow. There’s a truce now, but it won’t last. The English will return in spring, sure as the tide.’

As Affraig’s anger deepened she realised it was directed at herself. She could cure a headache or purify an abscess, deliver a child into the world and cause a woman to conceive. But these men and women now asked the impossible.
Make my seeds grow in the scorched earth. Fill my empty larder. Help us have victory over the English. Bring back my son.
The gods seemed crueller these days, less agreeable to her supplications. Destinies dropped from her tree unfulfilled. One man came last year, stormy with threats and cries. His destiny had been to wed his love, but she had been killed when the English stormed the village. It had made Affraig doubt herself.

‘You fool,’ she said sourly to Angus, plucking her cloak tighter. ‘You do not know the English will return. Will you risk your daughter’s life on rumour? Earl Robert will hear of the ruin of Turnberry. He’ll come with an army to rebuild his fortress and defend his—’

‘Have you not heard?’ Angus cut across her. ‘Bruce has submitted to the English king. He crossed the border two months ago and went to London. The whole village has been alive with it. We’ll find no help from him.’ He trailed off at her changing expression. ‘I’m to be getting back.’ He frowned hopefully. ‘The charm?’

‘Come tomorrow.’ Affraig didn’t look at him. Her eyes were on a web in the tree above her, in the centre of which hung a crown of heather and broom, withered by weather and time. Her gaze remained on it as the two men walked away. Then, with a hot rush through her veins and a snarl on her lips she turned and struck out through the muddy snow towards the house. The wind caught her cloak and tore it from her shoulders. She let it fall. Against the side of the house was propped a long, forked stick. Snatching it up, her cheeks mottled, Affraig returned to the oak. Grasping the stick in both hands she stood beneath the branches, eyes on the crown. Her heart pounded out the rhythm of the words in her mind.

Tear it down.

With a thrust, she pushed the forked stick up through the branches. A woman’s shout stopped her. Affraig looked round, breathing hard, the pronged end of the stick hovering inches from the web. In the doorway stood her niece, her young daughter balanced on one hip.

‘It’s raw, Brigid,’ called Affraig, her voice hoarse. ‘Take Elena inside.’ She turned back to the task, but her arms were burning with the effort of holding the stick above her head and she had to lower them.

Brigid crossed the ground towards her, her dress whipping around her lean figure, her hip and collarbones protruding through the thin material. Crow-dark tendrils of hair streamed behind her. She was only in her mid-twenties, but looked older, her face careworn, her eyes like haunted pools. Still, there was strength in her voice. ‘What are you doing, Aunt?’

‘Angus says Robert Bruce surrendered to the English king. He has abandoned us.’ Affraig’s eyes flicked to the web. ‘I will tear his destiny down!’ As she spat these words her mind filled with an image of Robert sitting by her fire five years ago, watching as she wove the broom, heather and wormwood into a circle. The fierce light of ambition in his blue eyes had reminded her of his grandfather. The image changed, twisting into the face of Robert’s father, scornful, hateful. He had come to her once, as his father before him and his son after, desiring her arts. He had been hot with temper and drink, but she had taken his coins and worked him his spell.