Insurrection: Renegade [02] (39 page)

His great-uncle, King Richard, had been called the Lionheart. His uncle, King Louis of France, had been canonised. Crusader and Saint: that was how they were remembered. He wanted his own legacy to stand as tall. The man who brought Britain under his dominion, a kingdom united. A man they would speak of as a new Arthur. The greatest warrior king who ever lived.

Marguerite caught him staring at her. ‘You look lost in thought, husband.’ Her French was silvery.

Edward inhaled. ‘I am thinking of the coming campaign. Stirling Castle will prove a challenge, I fear.’

‘Can you not cut off their supplies? Isn’t that what you have done before, with success?’

He half smiled, enjoying her interest in his strategies. ‘It will take too long. Stirling is well stocked and even better defended.’ Edward held out his hand to her.

Marguerite put down her book and crossed to him, the hem of her gown rustling across the rug. She allowed Edward to guide her in front of the window, while he stood behind, his hands on her shoulders.

‘Like Edinburgh,’ he said, stooping so his face was level with hers and staring towards the distant crags that loomed over the city. ‘A rock too high to scale with ladders. Only one road in. Walls too lofty and too thick for most engines.’

‘What will you do?’

‘I am thinking of using something I saw in the Holy Land, employed by Sultan Baybars.’

Marguerite turned and laid her palm above his heart. ‘The one who tried to kill you?’

Edward had an image of a cloaked man and a dagger rising. His brow pinched at the memory of the blade punching into his chest and of Eleanor’s screams as he collapsed. While his guards had tackled the Assassin Baybars had sent, his wife had thrown herself down on him, the blood washing hot over his chest as she removed the dagger and put her lips to the wound to try to suck out the poison.

Edward put his hand over Marguerite’s and removed it from the scar that riddled the skin beneath his shirt. His second wife was everything he could have hoped for in a queen: quiet of voice and gentle of nature, lovely of face and studious of mind, and she had borne him two sons. But she wasn’t Eleanor. She hadn’t touched his soul.

‘My lord.’

Edward turned to see Aymer de Valence standing in the main doorway of the chamber. He looked grim.

‘What is it, cousin?’

‘I’ve just learned that you’ve granted Robert Bruce permission to return to Turnberry Castle.’

As Edward let go of her hand, Marguerite went to the chair to pick up her book.

Aymer nodded curtly as she passed him. ‘My lady.’

Edward waited until his wife had disappeared into the room his sons had been taken into, before answering. ‘He wishes to oversee the reconstruction of his castle and to assess the state of his new sheriffdoms.’

Aymer entered the chamber fully, pushing the door shut. ‘I think this is unwise, my lord. Unwise and dangerous. When you are so close to conquering Scotland? I implore you to deny his request.’

‘The defences at Ayr need rebuilding and garrisons must be re-established in both towns.’ Edward crossed to the hearth and held out his hands to the flames, feeling warmth seep into the tips of his icy fingers. ‘My campaigns have focused on the destruction of the west these past years. If I am to profit from my conquest, I must look to restoring peace and prosperity across the realm. If no harvests are growing, no cattle or sheep reared or trade routes opened, my coffers will not be filled.’ He turned to Aymer. ‘This is no whim, cousin. I need what Bruce can provide in this.’

‘Then allow me to accompany him. Keep an eye on him.’

The king studied Aymer’s expression. Almost thirty, the man was very much in the mould of his formidable father, William de Valence. The truculent Frenchman, Edward’s half-uncle, had been one of the only members of his family who hadn’t turned his back on him when his father sent him into exile. Like William, Aymer was well-built with dark, strong-boned features, though his good looks were somewhat marred by the wire that now kept his front teeth in place. The injury, sustained at the Battle of Llanfaes, had been caused, so the knight maintained, when several of Madog ap Llywelyn’s men attacked him, but Edward had seen the way he had looked at Robert Bruce that day, with murder in his eyes, and had wondered.

Aymer, his father’s son, was also given to violent outbursts of temper and excesses in battle, but he wasn’t as strong a leader and the king saw he found it difficult competing with men like Humphrey de Bohun, a natural commander whom others liked and respected. Edward guessed this was in part because Aymer wasn’t yet titled as his peers in the Round Table were. Despite the fact his older brother had died in the Welsh wars and his father in Gascony, he hadn’t yet inherited the earldom of Pembroke, still held by his mother. The king had seen the knight come into his own in the last year’s campaign, but his suspicion of Robert Bruce was fast becoming an unwelcome obsession. It irritated Edward, as if Aymer thought he could see something he himself could not. After the initial fear that Bruce knew something of Adam had been allayed, Edward had watched him settle, quietly and obediently, into the role of humbled servant. Just as the man’s father had, years earlier. Over time, his suspicions had faded in the face of Bruce’s continued loyalty. ‘I need you here, Aymer, when I plan my next campaign.’

‘My lord, please tell me what Bruce has done to earn your trust? He has done little I can see other than fight John Comyn – and his enmity towards my brother-in-law is well known. He has given us only the barest scraps of information on the rebels, talking about weakness in castles we already know about, seemingly unable to give us information about their encampment in the Forest.’

‘He told Humphrey all those outside Wallace’s inner circle were met on the boundaries and led to the camp blindfolded.’

‘And you believe that?’

‘Sir Humphrey does. That is enough for me.’

Aymer scowled. ‘Humphrey was wrong about him before.’ He went to the king and stood before him. ‘My concern is that Bruce might use this moment to slip away and warn the rebels of our plans. Surely that is a concern worthy of an escort, if nothing else?’

‘Warn them of what, exactly?’ Edward demanded, anger cutting through the tolerance he had towards his cousin. ‘That I intend to batter the last life out of their insurrection this coming summer? That I will take Stirling and hunt down that dog, Wallace? John Comyn and his merry band will be well aware of my intentions, I can assure you. Indeed, I pray they are. I want the whoresons to know what is coming.’

Aymer pressed on, despite the king’s displeasure. ‘My lord, you must know Bruce only returned to your service because he knew he would lose everything if John Balliol came back. Not out of any loyalty.’

‘Of course I know this.’ Edward took up a goblet. ‘Robert Bruce first rebelled against me because he wanted to creep from under his father’s shadow, not for any real love of his kingdom. He proved that by returning to me with the Staff of Jesus when Scotland needed him most. I admit I thought him a treasonous wretch on a par with Wallace himself, but now I see he is just like his father; an ambitious toad, happy to sit and grow fat on a lily pad so long as he is rich and comfortable, and has a little power in his pond.

‘The authority I have bestowed upon him will keep him loyal. He may also prove very useful in keeping the population under control. A familiar face.’ As Edward paused to take a sip of wine he saw his own face reflected in the goblet’s gold surface. The droop in his eyelid was his most prominent feature these days. ‘In the end,’ he murmured, ‘we are all made in the moulds of our fathers, Aymer.’ At a knock on the chamber door, he looked up irritably. ‘Enter.’

The door opened and Richard Crow, the man he’d set in charge of questioning the Scottish prisoners, entered. There was a piece of parchment in Crow’s hands and his face was lit with triumph. ‘I have it, my lord. The location of Wallace’s encampment.’

Edward set down his goblet and went to Crow. He took the parchment, his eyes darting over a roughly drawn map. A dark ring clearly indicated the perimeter of the Forest. Inside were various jagged lines and triangles, circles with crosses in and a larger cross near the south-west of the ring. ‘What are these symbols?’ he demanded, stabbing at the parchment with his finger.

‘Rivers, hills, ruins of buildings,’ said Crow, at the king’s side. ‘The Scot who drew it explained it all to me. There are markers on the trees the nearer you get to the camp.’

Edward stared at the black lines, his heart quickening as he realised he might be looking at a map to victory.

His reign had been a long road with much lost and gained along the way. He had crusaded in the Holy Land, conquered Wales and survived civil war, defeating Simon de Montfort, one of the greatest generals in England. He had reformed the realm left to him by his father, providing strong government, regular parliaments and new laws. He had fought his cousin for Gascony and had finally won, had fathered eighteen children and endured the grief of burying eleven of them. And he had done what he set out to do all those years ago on Gascony’s sun-baked soil, when the taunting songs the Welsh had sung of his first defeat against them still echoed in his mind. He had brought Britain under his command.

But though the
Last Prophecy
had been fulfilled and the four relics gathered, his victory was not complete. Scotland still defied him and the one man who was the symbol of that defiance remained at large.

William Wallace was a blight on Edward’s record of strength. There had been other opponents, more noble and distinguished, who had sought to destroy him, but he had bested them all. De Montfort, his own godfather, he had torn apart at Evesham, his remains fed to the dogs. The head of the Welsh prince, Llywelyn ap Gruffudd, had long since rotted away on London Bridge. Edward had no intention of letting Wallace, the brigand behind the defeat at Stirling – the greatest military disaster of his reign – escape the same fate. Edward had murdered his own brother-in-law in pursuit of his legacy. He would not stop until it was complete. ‘I will send a company at once.’ The king looked at Crow. ‘Tell the prisoner if this map doesn’t lead us to the camp, he will face the worst punishment I can conceive.’

‘Oh, he knows, my lord,’ said Crow with a smile, turning and heading from the chamber.

Aymer stepped in quickly. ‘My lord, send Robert Bruce with this force.’

Edward’s pale grey eyes narrowed. ‘Why?’

‘For one, blindfolded or not, he knows the Forest far better than any of our men and far better,’ Aymer added, ‘than I suspect he has admitted. Second, it will be a good opportunity to test his loyalty, once and for all.’

Edward couldn’t deny there was sense in this. ‘Very well.’

Aymer smiled, surprised, but before he could speak the king continued.

‘Sir Robert Clifford and Sir Ralph de Monthermer will lead the expedition.’

Chapter 32

Dunfermline, Scotland, 1304 AD

‘When?’

As Robert crouched by the chest that contained his sword, he glanced at his wife. Elizabeth had risen abruptly from the window seat at what he’d just said.

‘When are you leaving?’ she repeated.

Robert opened the chest and removed the blade. Pulling it part way from its filigreed scabbard, he was satisfied to see Nes had cleaned and whetted it. Rising, he pushed it through the loop in his belt. ‘As soon as my men have loaded the wagons. This afternoon at the latest.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’

Robert faced her resignedly, knowing the look he would be greeted with. There it was: the narrowed eyes and furrowed brow of her displeasure. ‘I found out only yesterday that King Edward granted my request. He informed me after vespers. When was I supposed to tell you?’

Discarding the book she had been reading, Elizabeth turned to the window, wrapping her arms about her. Her pale blue gown, belted under her bust with a plaited girdle of navy silk, was creased where she had been sitting. The hem of her fur-lined cloak was stained from the mud that swamped the abbey grounds, the first snows already trampled to slush by the host of men wintering there. The king, taking up residence in the abbot’s lodgings, had granted the earls use of the monks’ dormitory, lay quarters, laundry and stores. Knights and squires had taken over barns, or else pitched tents in the gardens and cloisters.

Like a web, with the king at the centre, the greater part of the army radiated outwards, infantry and archers setting up camp in the fields surrounding the precinct. Many had erected wooden huts in which to shelter from the worst of the winter. The boggy site, haunted by hopeful quacks, mummers and whores, had become a breeding ground for lice and infections of the lungs, and the men were suffering with January’s plummeting temperatures. The cacophony of coughing and phlegm hawking that accompanied their waking each morning could be heard in the abbey itself.

‘You could have told me last night.’ Elizabeth looked over her shoulder at him. ‘But how could you when you were with Humphrey and Ralph? Bess told me at chapel this morning that you were drinking and playing dice until dawn.’

A girlish shriek sounded from the adjacent chamber where Elizabeth’s maids were billeted with Judith and Marjorie. The door to the room, which had served as a linen store for the monastery’s laymen before the king commandeered the abbey, was ajar. Over the chatter of the women, Robert heard Judith telling his daughter to play quietly. The accommodations were cramped and sparse and Robert had found being cooped up with his wife and her maids unbearably claustrophobic after the months on the road. It had been a relief to spend last night in the company of men. ‘I would have thought it would please you and Bess that Humphrey and I have begun to make amends. You’ve both petitioned for it enough.’