Insurrection: Renegade [02] (31 page)

‘You are here under no authority I recognise,’ Comyn said, whipping his palfrey with his looped reins as it tossed its head and gnashed at the bit. ‘You and your men are trespassers.’

Segrave bared his bloodstained teeth, in pain or anger Comyn couldn’t tell.

‘I know you, John Comyn,’ he panted. ‘You and your father paid homage to King Edward. Swore fealty to him. You married his cousin and fought under his banner in France. You rose against him. Committed treason!’

‘We swore fealty under a falsehood, all of us,’ Comyn snapped back, kicking his horse closer to Segrave. ‘He said he would return our liberties to us when a new king was crowned. He lied. No sooner was John Balliol set upon the throne than Edward went back on his word. Now we defend our right with swords.’

‘Swords you will need,’ gasped Segrave, ‘when the king comes for you this summer.’

MacDouall stepped towards the wounded man, raising his blade. ‘Shall I finish him, sir?’

‘No. Tie him up. We’ll take him and the knights as prisoners. The ransoms they fetch will help fund my campaign.’

The captain gestured for his men to drag Segrave away. ‘And the rest, sir?’ he asked, looking to where scores of infantry, archers and squires were kneeling among their dead comrades, weapons thrown down in surrender.

‘Take all their gear. Any uninjured horses too.’ As MacDouall nodded and turned to go, Comyn added, ‘Your men get first pickings of food and wine from the wagons. But anything of value you bring to me.’

The surviving English knights – barely half their original number and some so badly wounded they were unlikely to last the day – were rounded up and bound. Scots moved across the battleground, stripping weapons, purses and mail coats from the dead. Others tended wounded comrades, bandaging cuts with torn scraps of shirts, offering swigs from wine skins or words of comfort and prayer to those on the brink.

The men of Galloway swarmed over the six wagons, the ground around which was slippery with blood from the drivers and archers slaughtered there. There was some grumbling among the other Scots at this favouritism, but these dispossessed men, who had lost lord and land with the dethronement of John Balliol, formed the greatest part of the rebel company; larger even than Comyn’s own troop of knights from Badenoch. Raised and commanded by MacDouall, his right-hand man, they were known as the Disinherited and were a force to be reckoned with. The grumbling therefore went unheeded as the men of Galloway dragged barrels of salted pork, pickled herrings, cheese and casks of French wine from the back of the wagons.

Jubilant, they set about opening the casks, splitting the tops of the barrels, looped with willow to protect the contents, and plunging in cups and skins. One man, to the amusement of his comrades, stuck in his hunting horn and, with one finger pressed to the mouth hole, upended the vessel and poured the crimson liquid down his throat. As the drink was downed, their laughter swelled, mingling with the harsh calls of the crows forming in the sky over the battleground. It was mid-morning, but the day was darkening, flakes of snow swirling in the wind.

Comyn had dismounted and was overseeing the round-up of English knights who, relieved of their weapons, were being lined up on the verge. A couple sagged against their neighbours, bleeding. ‘We’ll transport the prisoners to our base in two of the wagons,’ Comyn instructed one of his men. ‘They shouldn’t see the route we take, but blindfold them in case.’ He frowned when he realised the man wasn’t listening, but looking straight past him, eyes wide.

Comyn turned to see a giant striding towards him, wielding a great axe. It was coated from blade to shaft in blood and matter. The man himself was covered in the stuff. It soaked his blue cloak, scraps of meat and gristle clinging to the rings of his mail coat. More splattered his cheeks and jaw, and dripped from the ends of his brown hair, matted on the scalp where his helm and coif had sat. His blue eyes stared out from all that red, his gaze on Comyn.

Comyn stiffened, a knot of displeasure tightening in his chest. ‘Sir William,’ he greeted curtly. His gaze moved beyond Wallace to where the man’s comrades – most of them his commanders back when he was guardian of Scotland – were watching the looting of the wagons. He picked out the bald head of Gray, Wallace’s second-in-command, and the lanky figure of Neil Campbell among their number. Their faces were grim with disapproval.

‘We must move out, Sir John.’ Wallace’s voice was hoarse from battle, but carried enough strength that many turned on hearing him. ‘Rein in your men. This is neither the time nor the place to celebrate.’

Comyn smarted at the condemnation in the former leader’s tone, coming as it did in earshot of so many of his troops. In the five months since the delegation of nobles had left for France to request that King Philippe honour his word and aid Balliol’s return, Comyn had been working hard to increase his standing among the men of the realm. Victory today was a good step and, in allowing the Disinherited first share of the plunder, he ingratiated himself further with Balliol’s former army: a necessity, given his secret intent to overthrow their exiled lord. Still, he had much to do, not least in the face of William Wallace’s unexpected return during the winter.

Standing erect, Comyn faced the blood-soaked Wallace, who was a good head and shoulders above him. ‘I imagine your view would be different had your men won the battle. The victory belongs to Badenoch and Galloway. They deserve the spoils. Let any man say otherwise,’ he added, glaring around him.

‘They can have all the spoils they want, when we return to camp. The scouts told you there were three companies set out from Edinburgh. This was only the advance. The others will not be far behind. We have lingered too long already.’

‘I never thought you to be wary of facing the English.’

Wallace didn’t falter at the trace of scorn in Comyn’s tone. ‘I pick my battles, Sir John. I have been bold, yes, and paid a high price for that daring. But I have never been foolish.’

Comyn caught sight of Earl John of Atholl standing close by with Alexander Seton. Atholl gave a cold smile at Wallace’s response. At his side, Seton was nodding. Comyn felt his cheeks grow hot. As he opened his mouth to retort, a horn sounded from the hillside. Turning abruptly, he saw men on the higher ground gesturing frantically down the road. Comyn went to his palfrey and mounted quickly. As he kicked the tired animal across the field he was followed by Wallace. Even before he reached his men, Comyn heard their shouts rising over the fading echo of the horn.

‘
The English are coming!
’

Reining in his horse, Comyn rose in the saddle to stare down the road. In the distance he saw a mass of riders. They were coming fast along the highway. As distant trumpets sounded, he knew they had seen his force. His troops were battle weary and in disarray, the greater part of them drunk on looted wine. They stood little chance against heavy cavalry without the element of surprise.

‘You have stirred the hornet’s nest, Comyn,’ came Wallace’s hard voice beside him. ‘Now let us see if you can bear the sting.’

Cursing bitterly, Comyn impelled his horse down to the road, yelling at the men still crawling over the wagons. Many, heeding his alarm, were jumping down from the carts, pouches bulging with food and plunder, but others were too dazed with drink to understand what was happening.

MacDouall, mounted and with sword drawn, was at his side in an instant. ‘Sir, the prisoners?’

Comyn stared at the row of bound knights facing the road in eager expectation, looking for the comrades they guessed were coming to their aid. His gaze went to the wagons, still full of weapons, coins and valuable equipment, ignored – on his orders – by the looters. ‘Leave them. There’s no time,’ he spat, wrenching his horse around. ‘
Retreat!
’

A bear-like roar sounded above his cry. ‘Back to the trees, you curs!
To me!
’

John Comyn had a moment to see how quickly the men under his command were moved to action at Wallace’s roar, then he was jostled and shoved by the tide of Scots now riding for the safety of the Forest, swept up in the haphazard retreat.

Chapter 25

Writtle, England, 1303 AD

Robert stood in the yard outside his father’s hall, watching the wagon approach. Beside him, he felt Elizabeth shiver. His wife drew her grey mantle, lined with sable, tighter around her shoulders. He had bought the expensive pelt last month from a furrier in Chelmsford and had his father’s tailor sew it on her favourite cloak without her knowledge, enjoying her surprised smile when she had taken the newly lined garment from her clothes perch. Since then he had sensed a slight easing of the discomfort that hung between them like an invisible hair shirt, chafing them both. Neither of them had wanted this marriage, but there was no use in lamenting it. Besides, the union with Ulster’s daughter had helped him secure his position in England and he couldn’t deny the advantages of allying himself with the powerful de Burgh family. A thoughtful gift to keep her happy took little effort.

Elizabeth’s eyes, pale in the spring sunlight, were fixed on the approaching company of riders escorting the wagon. As she exhaled, her breath fogged the air.

‘Don’t worry,’ Robert assured her. ‘She will soon come to love you.’ But, as he turned his gaze back to the road, he felt those words as a cold blade against his heart. Would she love him? Would she even know him?

The riders funnelled across the drawbridge, hooves clopping. The men’s surcoats bore the arms of Annandale: a red banded saltire on yellow. The wagon followed in their wake, rumbling over the boards. Grooms came forward to take the horses as the drivers jumped down and dogs rushed from the kennels barking excitedly. Among them was Robert’s hound, Fionn, fully grown and boisterous.

One of the riders, a thickset man with cropped grey hair, dismounted and came to Robert. ‘Good day to you, sir.’

‘Walter,’ Robert greeted, recognising the man at once. Walter had been one of his grandfather’s vassals, before Annandale had passed to his father. His weathered face provoked memories of hunts in the woods outside Lochmaben, a gratifying reminder of home. He seemed haggard, worn by more than just the journey or the years that had passed since Robert had seen him last. He reasoned it must have been hard for all his father’s vassals who remained in Annandale, forced to live a strange half-life in a region overrun by the English, tolerated, but unwelcome. Memory now had a sting. He thought of Carrick, of all he had left behind. His constable, Andrew Boyd, had returned to Turnberry, but the castle was still in ruins. It would take time to plan the reconstruction and gather funds. ‘I take it you had no trouble on the road?’

‘None, sir.’ Walter looked past Robert into the shadows of the hall. ‘Is my lord in residence?’

‘My father is still sleeping.’
Sleeping off last night’s drink
, Robert added silently. ‘Edwin will show you and your men to lodgings where you can eat and rest in the meantime.’ He gestured to his father’s steward, who had come out to greet the arrivals.

As Edwin escorted Walter across the yard, Robert saw that two figures had climbed down from the back of the wagon. One was a woman dressed in a green woollen cloak, a white coif covering her hair. The other was a girl. Her thin frame was swamped by an embroidered yellow mantle, fastened at her shoulder with a silver brooch and her hair, grown fine and dark like his, was braided and pinned on her head. She looked around nervously as the woman guided her to where Robert and Elizabeth waited.

Robert’s chest tightened at the sight of his daughter, whom he hadn’t seen in almost three years. What had happened to the toddling girl he had left in James Stewart’s care? Before him stood a solemn child of seven, impossibly changed. Realising she was staring uncertainly at him, her pallid brow pinched, he forced himself to smile. His eyes went to the young woman at his daughter’s side, who had also changed in his absence, though less markedly.

Judith had become Marjorie’s wet nurse shortly after the passing of his wife Isobel, who died in labour during the siege of Carlisle. Back then, Judith had been a skinny, sullen creature of fifteen. Now, she was in her early twenties, with blotchy cheeks and light brown hair, strands of which drifted from under her coif. Though she had stopped nursing his daughter some years ago, Robert had kept the young Englishwoman in his pay, wanting the child to have at least one constant in her life.

‘Sir,’ Judith greeted, with a little bob and an inquisitive glance at Elizabeth.

Robert nodded to the nurse in greeting, then held out his arms to his daughter. ‘Marjorie.’ The pain in his chest sharpened when she remained rooted to the spot.

Reaching up, the girl grasped Judith’s hand.

Judith smiled slightly, then slid her fingers from the child’s grip and patted her back. ‘Go to your father.’

Marjorie took a few reluctant steps forward. She flinched when Robert pulled her to him, enfolding her tense body in his arms.

He closed his eyes, breathing in the warm smell of her hair, before kissing the top of her head and stepping back. ‘How was your journey? Did you see much of England?’

Marjorie looked back at Judith, but her nurse had returned to the wagon and was instructing one of the porters to unload their belongings.

‘And Sir James and his wife Egidia? How are they? Did they treat you well?’