Insurrection: Renegade [02] (41 page)

Chapter 33

The East Coast, Scotland, 1304 AD

The moon hung low over the coast of Scotland. For James Douglas it was a lantern, guiding him home. With his gaze, he traced the cliffs and the white swell of the snow-clad hills beyond, eyes shining at the sight of his homeland, which he hadn’t seen for seven years.

Back then he’d been a whip-thin boy of twelve summers, barely able to wield a blade. Now, at nineteen, his body had lengthened and thickened into that of a young man, his arms and chest were corded with muscle from the strict martial training his uncle had given him and his chin was shadowed with a beard, the same crow-black as his hair.

‘Is it how you remember?’

James forced his eyes from the cliffs to see William Lamberton looking at him. The Bishop of St Andrews was wrapped in a black cloak, the hood pulled over his tonsure. His eyes gleamed in the dawn, one icy blue, the other pearl white.

‘No, your grace,’ replied James, his French clear and strong over the splash of oars. ‘It is even more beautiful.’

‘Do not get your hopes up, Master James.’ The caution came from Ingram de Umfraville, who sat stiffly on one of the benches between the oarsmen, his breath fogging the air as he spoke.

James’s gaze flicked to him. Umfraville, along with Lamberton and John Comyn, was one of the three guardians of Scotland. James had been introduced to him back in Paris, when they boarded the boat on the banks of the Seine. He hadn’t liked him then and the fortnight’s crossing – navigating around the English blockade in the Channel – had done nothing to alter his first impression.

‘It is not the Scotland you knew,’ continued Umfraville morosely. ‘The years of warfare have changed it beyond recognition.’

‘It looks much the same to my eyes,’ observed Lamberton, his gaze on the coastline.

James moved to sit beside the bishop. He had known Lamberton less than three months and felt he had his measure as much as he had Umfraville’s. He was a man of few words, but all of them were keenly weighed. He was young for a bishop, James guessed not much more than thirty, quick as silver and twice as bright, with a voice that forced men to listen when he spoke. James had liked him immediately. Not least because Lamberton was the one man who had vowed to do what no other had. He had pledged to help him get his lands back.

James’s father, Sir William Douglas, former governor of Berwick, had been the first nobleman to join the insurrection. A tower of strength and fiercely patriotic, he had been there when Wallace had risen to surge across Scotland, bringing fire and sword to the English. He had fought at Wallace’s side, hounding King Edward’s justiciar out of Scone and battling the enemy during the sack of Berwick. But, for all his might, he had been unable to resist when the English had taken him in chains to the Tower of London.

James had been in Paris when he learned of his father’s passing. The year before Robert Bruce had arrived at the family’s castle in Douglas to abduct James and his mother on behalf of King Edward, who had wanted to use them to persuade the lord to forsake his alliance with the rebels. As it turned out, Bruce had disobeyed the king’s command and let them go free, but James’s mother had sent him to Paris to live with an uncle, until the danger passed. On hearing of his father’s death in the Tower, James learned that the lands of Douglas, to which he was heir, had been granted to a man named Robert Clifford, one of the king’s favourites.

James had raged against Edward, cursing him and all who served him, but finally his fury subsided to a cold hatred and one morning, sitting on the banks of the Seine, he made a solemn promise to his father’s memory that he would return to his homeland and reclaim what was rightfully his. That opportunity had presented itself in the late autumn when his uncle introduced him to Lamberton, who had been part of a delegation at the French court, hoping to restore John Balliol to the throne, a hope now crushed by the treaty agreed between England and France. Unbeknown to James, his uncle had been in contact with the bishop, speaking about the possibility of Lamberton taking him on as his ward, a proposition to which the bishop had agreed.

James had packed little in the bag he took from his uncle’s house. Just some coins his uncle gave him, some spare clothes and his sword, now strapped to his hip beneath his cloak, the pommel digging into his side. He was a lord in name, but felt like a vagabond. Still, there was a freedom in his rootlessness that was appealing. He was the adventurer, in search of riches, glory and redemption.

‘Do you think I’ll get the chance to fight, your grace?’ James kept his voice low, so Umfraville and the knights escorting the two guardians wouldn’t hear.

Lamberton’s face was clearer with the advancing dawn, a rosy hue now tinting the horizon. He looked thoughtful. ‘The messages we received in Paris were ominous. The king and his son conquered much of Scotland during the summer. Instead of returning to England when the campaign was ended, he chose to winter at Dunfermline. I believe he means to end us this coming year, when the snows thaw.’ The bishop’s gaze drifted to the cliffs, whose scarred faces were rust red in the breaking dawn. ‘There is a belief among my comrades that surrender is the only viable option left to us.’

James studied the bishop’s expression. ‘But you still have hope?’ He half smiled. ‘You wouldn’t have promised to help me win my lands if you didn’t.’

Lamberton met his gaze, those strange eyes burning in the fire of the rising sun. ‘There is always hope, Master James.’

Dunfermline, Scotland, 1304 AD

Ralph de Monthermer lay awake, one arm propped behind his head. As he breathed in, he could smell traces of olive oil and herbs on the cover; Joan’s scent caught in the weave. Ralph closed his eyes, the darkness behind them filled with visions of her lustrous hair tumbling over her shoulder as she leaned forward to kiss him, her skin honeyed by candlelight.

The door opened, banging back against the wall. Ralph sat up, startled from his reverie, as four of the king’s men burst into the room. ‘What in God’s name are you—?’

‘Sir Ralph, on the king’s order you are hereby charged with the crime of rape. We are to take you into custody.’

Ralph swung his legs over the bed and stood. He was naked except for his braies. ‘Rape? Is this some jest, Martin?’

‘No jest,’ replied Martin grimly. He took a pair of hose and an undershirt that were draped over a chest and tossed them at Ralph, who caught them. ‘I suggest you put these on. The stables are cold.’

‘Stables?’ murmured Ralph. He stared at the knight. ‘Where the outlaws are?’

‘I’m sorry, my friend. I petitioned the king for you to be housed somewhere appropriate until this matter can be judged, but he was adamant.’ Martin’s brow creased. ‘Why did you do it, Ralph? The king’s daughter?’

Ralph’s thoughts tumbled off a cliff in his mind. Shock at the exposure of his secret was followed by fear.

‘I didn’t believe it when the king told me,’ Martin continued, ‘but he said Lady Joan’s tears confirmed it.’

Ralph knew, without any doubt, that Joan would not have accused him of any such thing. Rape was the king’s charge because he’d discovered the affair, of this he was certain. It was a harsh charge at that, punishable by castration if he was found guilty. On the heels of his shock came rage at the realisation that Robert Bruce must have betrayed him. ‘The son of a bitch gave me his word!’ With a shout, Ralph battered aside the stand with the goblets and jug on it. Red wine sprayed as the table toppled, the vessels clanging on the floor. ‘
I’ll kill him!
’

At Martin’s nod, the knights came towards him. Ralph lashed out, punching one of them in the face, but even as the man staggered away, clutching his bloodied nose, his comrades came in. Between them, they wrestled Ralph’s arms behind his back and marched him from the chamber.

Chapter 34

Selkirk Forest, Scotland, 1304 AD

The horses ploughed through the snow, the tremor of their passing bringing more flakes scattering down through the trees. Bare branches of ash and pine webbed the sky, where bands of copper fire glowed in the west. Outside in the world the sun was setting, but in the depths of Selkirk Forest it had been twilight for days.

Yesterday morning, following the course of a river whose breadth had been matched by a wide channel of sky, they’d had a brief respite from the gloom, but before long the train of three hundred knights and squires had veered south-west away from the river, deeper into the Forest. Thorny bushes and briars snaked across the uneven ground, where steep banks rose only to fall sharply into bracken-filled dells, riven by networks of frozen burns. It was an endless, monochrome expanse of white snow and black trunks, punctuated by the odd shock of red from holly berries.

‘Recognise any of this, Bruce?’

Robert, riding a piebald palfrey that was several hands shorter than Hunter and thus better to navigate through the dense woodland, didn’t have to look round to know it was Valence who had spoken.

As the knight tried to manoeuvre his horse up alongside him, one of the Carrick knights accompanying Robert kicked his mount in between them.

Valence laughed. ‘No need to be concerned. We are all friends here.’ He leaned forward in his saddle to peer around the man at Robert. ‘Aren’t we, Bruce?’ His mirth faded. ‘And it was a simple question.’

‘I was blindfolded on the few occasions I was led into the camp,’ replied Robert. ‘As I think you already know.’ In truth, he didn’t recognise any of the Forest on the route they had taken, coming south from Dunfermline through a land bleak with winter. He had almost always entered Wallace’s base from the west.

‘No doubt the closer we come to the viper’s nest, the clearer things will become.’ Pulling the reins tighter, the steel plates on his gloves clinking, Valence pricked his courser through the trees to join his own men.

Robert looked round, hearing the crunch of hooves. Seeing Humphrey, he nodded to the Carrick knight, who kicked his horse ahead allowing the earl to ride at Robert’s side.

‘Sir Aymer seems to be vying for the position as your shadow,’ observed Humphrey. ‘Every time I look round he’s at your side.’

Robert’s gaze lingered on Valence, riding erect in his saddle, his white and blue striped cloak swept back over one shoulder to display his mail and broadsword. ‘I wonder how he managed to persuade the king to let him come on this raid. From what I was told, King Edward refused him until the business with Ralph came to light.’

Humphrey’s face clouded at the mention of Monthermer’s transgression. ‘I still cannot believe it. I’ve known Ralph for years. I was there when he was inducted into the Knights of the Dragon. There when the king welcomed him to sit at the Round Table. Rape?’ He shook his head. ‘I would never have thought him capable of such an act.’

‘What if it wasn’t rape?’ Robert ventured, careful to keep his tone questioning. ‘What if Ralph and Joan were lovers and the king found out? He would be furious, understandably. Maybe he levelled the charge at Ralph to punish him?’

‘That certainly sits better with the man I know. But if Ralph was engaged in an affair with Lady Joan, he kept it close to his chest. I never suspected it.’

Robert said nothing, but his eyes strayed to Valence. He was certain the knight had something to do with it. Not only was he now under Aymer’s constant watch, but Ralph, imprisoned in Dunfermline, must think he had been the one to betray him. Worse still, every stride of their horses was taking them closer to Wallace.

The rebel leader always had patrols on the perimeter, who would hear them coming, but Humphrey and Aymer, both ordered to lead the raid in Ralph’s place, had anticipated this and had sent their own men on ahead to scout out their positions. Robert’s hope hung in the balance. If Wallace and the last of the resistance fell during this raid, he would have no chance to face the king head-on – to turn back the English and lay claim to the throne, in defiance of Edward’s new laws. The rebellion would be ended and the most Robert could expect – if he never found the proof he sought – would be that the king would make him governor, or perhaps guardian in time. The thought he would have to continue living this lie indefinitely was unendurable. He would rather go down fighting than face another year in Edward’s service.

Robert wished his brother were here, but Edward had been posted in his new role in the household of the Prince of Wales. He wondered if the king had intended to isolate him with that move; keep him corralled and in his place. His gaze drifted to Nes, riding close by. Humphrey’s voice broke through his thoughts.

‘I realise this is a strange moment to bring this up, Robert, especially in light of the business with Ralph. But I cannot keep it to myself any longer. Bess is with child.’

Thrown by the sudden shift in conversation, Robert gathered himself. ‘Bess? Expecting?’

‘Well, she tells me we must wait and see, but, yes, she believes so.’

Through his tension, Robert felt an unexpected pleasure at the pure delight in the earl’s face. From Elizabeth’s talk, he knew the couple had been hoping for a child for some time. Humphrey’s smile was infectious. Robert found himself laughing with him. ‘I’m overjoyed for you. Truly.’

Humphrey’s grin broadened. ‘Thank you, my friend.’ He faltered, seemingly also caught unawares by the heartfelt exchange.